


a song of ash and snow

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Pregnancy, Rape, an au that will at times strain credulity, eventual jeyne/theon, mixing show and book canon, some chapters are m rated but overall the fic is t, where to start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 113
Words: 192,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: Theon doesn't go to the Iron Islands; he goes to King's Landing to spirit away Sansa and Arya.





	1. THEON I

**Author's Note:**

> Okay yes hi, I have...no idea where to begin.
> 
> I've been toying with this idea for a few years now and haven't had the guts or energy to attempt it until now. Basically, I wondered what would have happened if, instead of sending Theon to Pyke to win Balon to his cause, Robb had sent Theon to King's Landing to retrieve Sansa and Arya. It would change so much, and I think I'm feeling ambitious enough to see it through. Or most of it, anyway.
> 
> This is the first fic I've written in over ten years that hasn't been completed before I began posting. I will be updating as I write, which is somewhat terrifying to me. 
> 
> I'm combining show and book canon purely to suit my own needs. Therefore, Ros and Jeyne Poole will exist in the same universe, Shae is going to be her show version and not the books version, and everyone is at their show ages. 
> 
> Please do hit me up if you have any questions/comments/concerns! You can also find me on tumblr as jeynepoole!

.

The spires of the Red Keep rise up over the horizon, offering Theon his first glimpse of King’s Landing. He’s never been to the capital, and if aught goes awry, he’ll never leave it.

_ You’re a Greyjoy _ , he reminds himself.  _ You’ll survive this. _

It had not been his intention to come to King’s Landing. His  _ intention _ had been to sail to Pyke and win his father to Robb’s cause. And Robb had agreed, at first; but then he’d changed his mind.

“You’ll go to King’s Landing and find my sisters,” Robb had commanded. 

“I thought I was going to Pyke, Your Grace?”

Robb’s eyes had lowered. “My mother...she’ll never rest until we get the girls back. I sent her to treat with Renly Baratheon, but that will only hold for so long. And she’s right; the Lannisters will never agree to exchange my sisters for two cousins, not when we have the Kingslayer. Sansa will be married to Joffrey soon, and Arya...who knows who they’ll make her marry?”

Theon had tried not to let his disappointment show. “If my father’s ships take King’s Landing…”

“We will send an emissary to Pyke to treat with your father.” Robb still had not met his eyes. “But you must go to King’s Landing.”

“With what army?” Theon had asked almost angrily.

“No army. Just you and a few men. No one in King’s Landing knows who you are; you can sneak into the city, just one of thousands. The Lannisters won’t be looking for Theon Greyjoy, they’ll be looking for an army marching on their walls. Steal my sisters away in the night, bring them north. You’re the only person I trust to do this.”

Theon’s heart had swelled with pride. “I don’t need any men,” he’d boasted. “I can get them out of King’s Landing on my own.”

Now, looking at the sheer size of the city, he begins to wonder if he ought to have taken the men Robb had offered. He has no idea how to get Sansa and Arya out of the Red Keep, let alone out of King’s Landing, and it might be a few extra men would make the task smoother. But he’d promised Robb that he’d rescue Sansa and Arya, and that is what he intends to do.

Spurring his horse onward, he canters down the Kingsroad and towards that wonderful, terrible city.

.

Robb was right; the Lannisters aren’t looking for Theon Greyjoy. He rides through the gate without so much as a second glance in his direction, the City Watch being too busy watching some children fight over a scrap of meat. They have no interest in one of thousands of men seeking something out in the capital.

He finds an inn in the shadow of the Red Keep; the room and board is nearly criminal, but he supposes that’s what happens when you travel south. At any rate, it has him nice and close to the Keep. 

So that takes care of where he’s staying. As for the rest...well, there are people who make a living off of telling men what they want to hear.

.

The brothels in King’s Landing are far, far superior to those of the North. There are girls in all shapes, sizes, and colors, and all of them smile prettily at him. A woman with skin as black as ebon and breasts as big as melons sits on his lap as he drinks ale--a little watery for his taste, but that’s just as well. He must keep his wits about him if he’s to learn how to infiltrate the Red Keep.

“Where are you from?” she asks him in a lilting accent.

“North.”

“You’re a brave man, to come south with this war going on,” she praises.

“That’s why I came south--to get away from it. And besides, I’ve fucked every woman in the North, thought I’d make a go of you Southerners.”

The other men at the table roar with laughter. 

“You ever fucked a redhead named Ros?” asks a Lannister soldier, who Theon has been watching carefully.

“Might’ve,” he says, sipping his ale to hide his face. 

“Ah, you’d remember. She’s a Northern girl, and the best fuck I ever had. She’s working in Littlefinger’s brothel. If you get homesick, she’s just the thing.”

Theon licks his lips and smiles. “Might be just the thing for me, then.” He pats the ebon-woman’s hip and urges her off his lap, tossing a few coins on the table. “Where is this brothel, then?”

The soldier gives him the directions. 

“Look for a mockingbird by the door. That’s how you’ll know.”

Theon finds the brothel exactly where the soldier said it would be, bearing a mockingbird sigil. He grins and walks through the door.

It is the most exquisite brothel Theon has ever seen. Red silks are draped over the windows, casting the interior in a gauzy red light. The floor is a bright, bronzy sort of color, and the walls are covered in rose-colored tapestries. Incense fills the air, and somewhere deep inside, Theon can hear the melodic strumming of a harp. 

A blonde beauty wearing very little smiles coyly at him. “Hello, handsome. Looking for company?”

He grins. “I am, at that. Looking for a particular girl. Redhead by the name of Ros?”

“You from the North too?” she teases. “I’ll tell her you’re here.” She saunters away, hips swaying beneath the thin material of her sarong. He’s sorely tempted to chase after her, but the knowledge that he’ll soon see Ros stays him. He waits, in the meantime, on one of the plush settees, grinning at a woman with warm brown skin and a ring through her nose as she pours him a cup of wine. Around him, naked or nearly so women sit on the laps of lords in fine clothes, murmuring in their ears and giggling. 

Ros walks out of a corridor, sees him, and grins.

“Well, well; this  _ is _ a surprise,” she purrs as he gets up to greet her. “What are you doing all the way down here?” 

“I’ll tell you later,” he says, already growing hard at the thought of being inside her. “First, I want to fuck you.”

“You’ll have to pay for it here,” she says, half teasing but half chastising. “And it’s quite a bit more expensive than it was in the North.”

“I’ll pay.” 

“Then come with me.” She takes his hand and leads him down the corridor and into an expansive room. It’s certainly bigger than her room in Winter Town, with a high, vaulted ceiling and an enormous canopied bed. This room is fit for a queen, and it belongs to a whore.

“I’ve learned some things since coming here,” she says coyly, shutting the door. “Shall I show you?”

“Aye.” He takes her by the waist. “Show me.”

.

A long time later finds him lying, sweating and sated, in Ros’s plush bed with silk sheets. She rolls onto her side and grins at him, stroking his chest. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says sincerely. 

“I know. And I suppose I’d be lying if I said I haven’t missed you in your own way.”

He grins, kissing her. 

“So what  _ are _ you doing here?” she asks. “Thought you’d be fighting in King Robb’s war.”

“I am,” he says with a note of triumph. “And I’m here on a quest, and I need you to help me.”

“A quest?” She raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

There are many men, he’s sure, who would tell him never to trust a whore, but Ros is different. She is, oddly, one of his closest friends, even if he does pay her to fuck him. And she’s from the North; if anyone understands the importance of his mission, it’s another Northerner.

“I’m here to retrieve the Stark girls and take them home to Winterfell.”

“You’re going to kidnap them?” she asks in surprise.

“The Lannisters hold them hostage,” he says savagely. “They’re going to marry Sansa to Joffrey, the man who killed her father! It wouldn’t be kidnapping, it would be  _ saving _ them.”

“The Lannisters wouldn’t see it that way, and it’s their opinion that matters if they catch you,” she warns. 

“And what would you know about it?” he sneers, regretting telling her anything.

A flash of something almost like fear crosses her face. “There’s someone you should see.”

“What do you mean?” He sits up, frowning.

She sits up too. “Get your clothes on and come with me.”

He’s too curious to protest, so he tugs his clothes back on as she pulls her silk shift back over her head. Taking his hand, she leads him out of the room, down a corridor, and up a set of stairs. He follows with wide eyes, wondering what on earth Ros could have to show him. 

She stops before a gold-and-mahogany door, and with a pale face, she pushes open the door.

There’s a girl sitting on a bed, arms around her knees. She’s trembling, face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair.

“Jeyne,” Ros says softly. “It’s all right.”

The girl looks up, and Theon stumbles back.

Because staring back at him is Jeyne Poole.


	2. JEYNE I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning to write this chapter and then...it happened anyway. Apologies for the length--next chapter should be longer!

It takes Jeyne a long time to realize what’s happening to her. 

She trusts Lord Baelish, because he had been so kind to Sansa. When he tells her that he’s taking her to her father, she believes him.

Even when they leave the Red Keep, even when he takes her to what is clearly a house of ill repute, she believes him. Even when he locks her in this room and tells her, “All in good time, sweetling,” she believes him. Even when girls come later and strip her of her Northern clothes and make her wear the flimsy gowns of the south, she believes him. 

And even when the first man comes into her room and presses her into the bed, stifling her screams with his hand and pounding into her, she believes that she will see her father. When the man leaves her with tears in her eyes and blood between her legs, she believes that this is all some horrible mistake, and soon her father will come for her and take her home and this will all have been a dream.

It isn’t until the third man that even her boundless imagination can no longer justify what is happening to her. The only mistake that was made was trusting Petyr Baelish. 

.

Sometimes Littlefinger (not Lord Baelish, someone like him does not deserve a noble title) comes in to instruct her. He tells her how to pleasure men. His talk frightens her, and makes her already aching center ache all the harder.

“Please,” she sobs in those first days. “Please, let me go home, I want my father.”

“Your father is dead.”

This makes her sob harder. “You lied to me, you told me he was alive, you told me you’d take me to him!”

“Your father served a traitor,” Littlefinger says coolly. “You’re lucky to be alive. Every other member of Lord Stark’s household is dead; were it not for my taking pity on you, you would be dead too. I would hate to think that you were ungrateful for my care.”

Jeyne cries all through the night. In the morning, Littlefinger has her taken outside and whipped. 

“Let that be the end of your tears,” he says when he’s finished.

Jeyne tries her hardest not to cry. Crying will get her whipped. And being ungrateful...that will get her killed.

.

The other girls range from kind to flat-out hateful. Some of them mock and taunt Jeyne, who they all say is a cry-baby. Some of them give her sympathetic smiles. 

And then there’s Ros, a Northern woman who came to King’s Landing for a better life. She was a whore in Winter Town and has known of the Starks and Winterfell her whole life. She knew of the Pooles, too, though they are a lesser house and Jeyne’s father was a steward besides. Their kinship inspires tenderness in Ros and utter devotion in Jeyne. Ros teaches her how to pleasure a man without bringing pain, how to clean herself after, how to take precautions so that she won’t get herself with child. When Jeyne gets her first moon blood, it’s Ros who helps her clean up the mess and shows her how to wear a cloth between her legs. 

“You’re a woman now, little Jeyne,” the redhead says with a fond smile. 

Jeyne wills herself not to cry. She doesn’t want to be a woman. She wants to go home.

.

Despite all of Ros’s guidance, lying under men never gets easier. They like her timid and afraid, and they like hurting her, too. She realizes that only a certain type of man would want to lie with a young girl, and this type of man is never kind. Many of them are like Meryn Trant, a member of the kingsguard she had once thought gallant. Now he beats her and rapes her and never leaves her without a bruise. 

He leaves her in the early hours of the morning, bruised and bleeding and sore. Ros finds her and gives her a bath while Merei’s girl strips her bed and gives her new, clean sheets. 

_ What’s the point? _ Jeyne thinks dully.  _ They’ll only get soiled again. _

Ros dries her and combs her hair and dresses her in a clean gown. 

“There,” she says softly, stroking Jeyne’s cheek. “All better.”

Before Jeyne can tell her that it isn’t all better, that she would rather drown herself in Blackwater Bay than endure another day of this, Bessa pokes her head in the room.

“Ros? There’s a man downstairs asking for you.”

“I’ll be down in a moment.” She squeezes Jeyne’s hand. “I’ll be back.”

Jeyne nods, wrapping her arms around her knees.

She’s still sitting like that when Ros pushes open the door.

And with her is Theon Greyjoy. 

  
  



	3. THEON II

Theon looks at Ros, his heart pounding.

“What in seven hells…?”

“Theon?” 

Jeyne’s voice is small and quiet. She unfurls her limbs, sliding off the bed. She’s gaunt, he can see now, her bones showing through sallow skin. There are dark half-moons under her eyes, and on her bare arms he can see the greenish smudge of bruises. “What are you doing here?” she asks in a tremulous voice.

“What are  _ you _ doing here? In a brothel?” he demands. Mayhap Jeyne escaped the Red Keep and is hiding here...but then, why does she look so afraid?

“He put me here,” she says in that same tremulous voice. “He took me from the Red Keep and he...he put me here.”

“Who?” Lord Stark? Her father? Some man in Lord Stark’s household who took her here to protect her?

“Littlefinger,” she whispers, eyes widening in terror. 

“Littlefinger?”

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” Ros says softly. “He’s the Master of Coin.”

“He hid you here? To keep you safe?”

“Not to keep me safe.” Tears spring to Jeyne’s eyes. “They killed Lord Stark’s household and locked me in a room with Sansa. Then one day they took her to see the queen...and they took me here.” She wipes her eyes. “He keeps me locked in this room, and if I try to leave or disobey him, he has me whipped.”

Bile rises in Theon’s throat. Surely he hasn’t...surely  _ she _ hasn’t…

“Has he…?” He swallows. “Have you…?”

Ros nods. “She has.”

“What sort of man puts a child in a brothel?” he asks, the sick feeling in his stomach getting worse. 

“A man like Littlefinger. He’s dangerous. And he has eyes and ears everywhere.”

“I’ll cut out his eyes and ears,” Theon says vehemently. He turns to Jeyne, who’s regarding him with a trembling sort of hopefulness. “I came here to take Arya and Sansa back to Winterfell, and I won’t leave without you.” 

She lets out a small sob. “But...but Arya…”

He waits patiently for her to go on, but her throat seems stopped up. “What about Arya, Jeyne?”

She shakes her head. “They can’t find her. They...they hadn’t found her when they locked me in the room with Sansa. No one’s heard from her.”

A heaviness settles on Theon’s shoulders. No. Surely they wouldn’t  _ kill _ Arya, not when they could trade her and Sansa for Jaime Lannister. The child must have escaped. Mayhap she’s hiding in the city, disguised as one of hundreds of filthy beggar children. Or perhaps she made it out of King’s Landing and is even now making her way to her mother and Robb. Or...she may have died. An overeager Lannister guard or a thug in the streets may have run her through with his sword. Or, being used to her old life, died of starvation. Perhaps she was walking down the Kingsroad when a raper found her and savaged her little body until she died.

No, he won’t think of that. Arya was always too quick for her own good; she’s a survivor, that one. But whether he ought to try to find her before returning to Winterfell or give her up for a lost cause, he doesn’t know.

Maybe Sansa will know more. She lives in the Red Keep, after all, and Jeyne has been locked away in this brothel. Surely Sansa knows  _ something _ . Perhaps the Lannisters found Arya after all and have kept her under lock and key. 

“We won’t give up on her yet,” he says gently.

“Even if you do find her,” Ros says skeptically, “how do you plan to sneak three girls under heavy watch out of the most dangerous city in Westeros? Do you even have any men with you?”

“No,” he admits, and for the first time begins to feel a little foolish at his own bravado. Why had he not accepted the men from Robb?

_ You’re a Greyjoy. You don’t need men. Your blood is salt and iron. _

“I don’t need men. They’d only attract attention.” That much is true; people would take notice if he rode into King’s Landing with a group of armed men. 

“You have to be careful, Theon.” Ros is serious, more so than he’s ever seen her before. “The Lannisters, Littlefinger...they’re smarter than you and me, and far more dangerous. If they catch on to who you are and what you’re doing, your head will part ways with your neck, and Jeyne will only suffer more.”

He hadn’t thought of that. If this Littlefinger finds out that Jeyne is trying to leave, he’ll have her whipped or worse. She isn’t important to him, that much is clear; he’s only kept her around to make a profit off of her. And if she becomes more trouble than she’s worth…

“They won’t know,” he says with a confidence he does not truly feel. And then, struck with an idea, he adds, “Because you’ll help me.”

Ros’s eyes narrow. “Will I?”

“Aye, you will. You want to help Jeyne and Lord Stark’s daughters, don’t you? You may live in the south now, but you’re still a Northerner.”

“Please help me, Ros,” Jeyne whispers. “I’ll die here, I can’t...I can’t keep being a whore…”

Ros’s face softens as she goes to the girl, wrapping an arm about her slender frame. “Of course I’ll help. Only...I don’t know how much I can do. Getting you out of here is one thing, but getting into the Red Keep…” Something flickers across her face. “On second thought...perhaps it won’t be as hard as all that.”

“No?” he asks hopefully.

She thinks about it. “I go sometimes, to call on...special customers. But getting in by myself and leaving with Sansa Stark are two different things.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to leave with her,” Theon muses. He doesn’t doubt that the Lannisters have eyes and ears everywhere and would surely know if Sansa left the Keep. Even if they did manage to spirit Sansa out of the Keep, someone might spy her on the streets. They’d have to leave immediately, as the moment someone realized she was gone, they’d bar the city gates until she was found. And there are only so many places to hide someone as remarkable as Sansa Stark. No, they’d have to flee the city immediately and make haste up the Kingsroad to outrun any soldiers that might pursue them. 

“What if,” he says slowly, “you traded places with her?”

“ _ What _ ?”

“You both have red hair. At night and from a distance, the guards might think she’s you if she wore your dress and left the Red Keep.”

“And where does that leave me?” Ros asks flatly. “Wearing  _ her _ dress and wandering around the Red Keep? They’d know I helped her, and then it’d be my head.”

And, well, she has a point there. 

“I can go to the Red Keep,” Jeyne says quietly. She looks at Ros. “Meryn Trant.”

Ros’s face hardens. “Not on your life.”

“Sansa will listen to me,” Jeyne says with patience, but she’s still trembling like a leaf. “If I can get to her, maybe she can think of a way to get her out. And maybe she knows something about Arya.”

He has to admit...it’s a better plan than sending in Ros. Ros is willing to help, but she doesn’t know the Red Keep as well as Jeyne, who lived there, and Sansa doesn’t know Ros, which may cause her not to trust the other woman. But if Jeyne went, she’d surely know where to find Sansa, and Sansa would surely trust her truest friend. 

“There has to be a way to get you in the Red Keep without...him,” Ros says, avoiding Theon’s eye. 

“Can’t you just go and...pretend you’ve been invited?” Theon asks, wondering who this  _ him _ is and why Ros is so reluctant to make him part of their plan. 

“I can,” Ros says. “But Lord Baelish has a tight rein on her, and if she’s going to the Red Keep, he’ll be suspicious. There’s only one person who would specifically request her to be there, and I’d rather not put her through that if we can avoid it.”

It isn’t hard for Theon to connect the dots. So there’s someone in the Red Keep who likes raping young girls. Meryn Trant, Jeyne had said. He stores that information away for later. 

“And there’s no one else who would...request her?” 

“No,” Jeyne whispers. 

“Not even anyone who would play along?”

Ros nearly smiles. “Well...now that you mention it...there is someone who might help me if I asked. But you won’t like who it is.”

“Who?”

“Tyrion Lannister.”

Theon’s face darkens. “No.”

“He’s not like the other Lannisters,” she says mildly. “And if I asked him a favor, he’d probably grant it.”

“For a price,” he can’t help from snarling.

“Well, I  _ am _ a whore,” she says, unaffected.

“We’ll figure something out,” Jeyne says softly. “But Theon...you should go. If the wrong person overhears…” She doesn’t finish the thought, and she doesn’t have to. He knows what it could mean.

He tells her and Ros where to find him, and then he leaves, pulling his hood up over his face.

Just in case.

.

Theon waits, but no one ever comes after him. So either the Lannisters truly don’t know of his presence, or they’re biding their time until he acts.

He resists the temptation to visit Ros and Jeyne in the brothel again, knowing that it might draw suspicion--as well as drain his purse. Robb had given him a generous amount of gold to survive in the capital, but the capital is more expensive than Theon had envisioned. He takes all of his meals in the inn, supping lightly on bread and stew and limiting the amount of ale he drinks. 

When he’s not in the inn, he’s on the streets, looking for Arya. The problem is that there are hundreds of girls like Arya in Flea Bottom, small girls with black hair and sullen eyes, and asking if anyone has seen one of these girls is like asking if anyone’s seen a whore in a whorehouse. And people will talk, if he asks too many questions. Jeyne may succeed in getting into the Red Keep and speaking to Sansa, and if she does, she might learn where Arya is being hidden away.

And if she doesn’t…

Well. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. 

He only hopes Ros and Jeyne are having more luck formulating a plan than he is.

  
  



	4. JEYNE II

As it turns out, Ros and Jeyne don’t need to formulate a plan, because one practically falls into their laps.

Littlefinger leaves for the Stormlands, leaving Ros temporarily in charge of the girls. She’s still relatively new to the brothel, but she has a better mind for running the place than any of the other women. She has a way with customers, a way that often leads to coins in the coffers.

It’s while she’s in charge that Lord Tyrion Lannister comes to pay a visit.

Jeyne has never personally met the man. She’d seen him when he came to Winterfell, of course, but she hadn’t been permitted to talk to him. She doesn’t speak to him now, either, only watches from the couch in Littlefinger’s office as Tyrion and Ros conduct their business.

It’s been nice for Jeyne, now that Littlefinger is gone. Ros has kept her out of sight of the brothel’s patrons, and the handful of men who’ve asked for Jeyne specifically are told that she’s indisposed. 

Ros is kinder than Littlefinger. She should be the one to run this place.

“What brings you here, my Lord Hand?” Ros asks Lord Tyrion now, leaning against the desk in such a way that it displays her assets to their best advantage. Jeyne sits placidly on the couch, content to watch a Lannister of Casterly Rock converse with a whore from Winter Town. 

“A matter of some discretion,” Lord Tyrion says, glancing at Jeyne.

“She’s all right.” Ros moves to pour him a glass of wine. “Your secrets are safe with me, my lord.”

“Good.” He takes a seat and accepts the glass of wine. “I need two or three clean, discreet, and above all, charming ladies to take the king’s virginity. As a belated name day present.”

_ Joffrey?! _

“Really now?” Ros asks in surprise. “Has he...expressed an interest?”

“Well...no,” Lord Tyrion admits. “Though Bronn believes he is…”

“Backed up,” the man with Lord Tyrion, Bronn, says cheerfully. 

“Yes. That.” Lord Tyrion gives him a distasteful look. “Since I don’t yet know what...type, my nephew prefers, I thought I would offer him...more than one option.”

“I like the way you think, my lord.” Ros considers him. “I can rustle up a few of the girls and bring them for you.”

“Only your best,” he warns her. “And I would like for you to be one of them.”

Ros inclines her head. “I’m honored, my lord.” She looks over at Jeyne. “Find Daisy, Marei, and Kayla for me, would you?”

Jeyne nods, getting up to find the women. Already, her mind is working. Surely Joffrey would not be seen at a brothel. Lord Tyrion would send the ladies to him. And if Ros is going, she could get Jeyne into the Red Keep, a task made all the easier with Littlefinger’s absence. It could work. It  _ will _ work.

.

Marei is with a customer, so Jeyne brings Daisy and Kayla to Littlefinger’s office. Lord Tyrion examines them for a long moment before deciding on Daisy. Ros dismisses the girls as soon as he’s decided.

“I want to bring her, too,” she says, nodding at Jeyne. 

Lord Tyrion glances at the girl. “She’s a child.”

“What if King Joffrey prefers someone closer to his own age?” Ros asks smoothly.

Lord Tyrion considers this.

“He is fond o’ tormenting Sansa Stark,” Bronn offers. “Might not be a bad idea to bring a girl his age.”

Jeyne’s heart pounds at the mention of Sansa--and of Joffrey tormenting her. Sansa had been so in love with him, and Joffrey could be so gallant to her. But this is the same boy who cut off Ned Stark’s head; why shouldn’t he be a monster?

“That’s a fair point,” Lord Tyrion allows. “All right, bring the girl. Tonight. I’ll send a litter for the three of you. And remember: discretion--”

“--is key,” Ros finishes with a smile. “Don’t worry, Lord Tyrion. I’ll have the girls washed and dressed in their finest for His Grace.”

“Excellent.” He hands her a hefty purse. “There’s more where that came from.”

“Your generosity is greatly appreciated, my Lord Hand.” Ros dips into a small curtsy as Lord Tyrion and Bronn take their leave.

Ros waits until they’re gone before she turns to Jeyne with a satisfied look. “There it is. Our way in.”

“Tonight. That’s...very soon,” Jeyne breathes, more than a little daunted. 

“It will be easy. You know the Red Keep, and you have an excuse to get in and out, should anyone ask--and that includes Littlefinger.”

Jeyne takes a deep breath. “Right. I only...I worry someone could recognize me. I don’t think anyone paid me much notice when I lived there, but if they did…”

Ros strokes her cheek. “They won’t recognize you. You’re not the same girl you were in the Red Keep.”

Jeyne gives her a sad smile. “No. I suppose I’m not, am I?”

“Well, come on,” Ros says, taking her hand. “Let’s go take a bath.”

.

Jeyne bathes regularly at Littlefinger’s brothel; it’s one of his rules. He wants all his girls to be clean.

“You’re not some back-alley Sally,” he’d scolded one of the girls when she’d complained. “You’ll be clean enough to eat off of--and trust me, some men will.”

Jeyne likes the baths, because they’re one of the only things that make her feel like a lady again. Moreso, even; Littlefinger’s baths have all kinds of soaps and oils, and pumice stones to keep your feet smooth and clean, because some men like that. Jeyne favors the soaps made of lavender and the oils made from pressed rosemary. They make her smell fresh and clean, and when she steps out of the tub, she can almost convince herself that everything will be alright.

To say she’s nervous would be an understatement. She hasn’t been in the Red Keep since the Lannisters killed all of Lord Stark’s household, including her father. If someone were to recognize her...what would they do? Kill her, like the rest of the Stark household? Lock her in the black cells? Send her back to Littlefinger’s brothel? 

And what if they don’t recognize her but learn that she’s some hapless whore wandering around the Red Keep? If they’re guards, they’ll toy with her, maybe even rape her. What if Lord Tyrion finds out she wandered away from Joffrey’s chamber? Will he be angry? He’ll certainly tell Littlefinger, and then Littlefinger will punish her. 

So she cannot ruin this. She must,  _ must _ find Sansa, and she must not let anyone find out what she’s doing. 

.

That evening, a large and curtained litter comes to the brothel. Jeyne, wearing a fine blue gown, climbs into it with Ros and Daisy, the latter of whom cannot stop gushing about how excited she is to go to the Red Keep.

“I mean, I’m just a whore from Haystack Hall, and now I’m going to lie with the  _ king _ !”

“Daisy?” Ros’s smile is fixed. “Don’t talk so much when you’re with the king.”

Daisy, who is too happy to care that she’s being scolded, lies back against the pillows and toys with the gauzy curtains. 

Jeyne keeps fiddling with the material of her dress until Ros reaches over and takes her hand. 

“It will be alright,” the older woman says, smiling encouragingly. “You can do this.”

Jeyne releases a shaky exhale. “I want to believe that.”

“Don’t worry, Jeyne; Ros and I’ll be more than he can handle,” Daisy titters. 

_ Yes. But will this be more than I can handle? _

.

Lord Tyrion himself meets them at a back way and leads them up and into Maegor’s Holdfast. Jeyne holds Ros’s hand, desperately trying to keep note of where they’re going. She’s been into the holdfast before, but never this far up, and she has no idea where Sansa’s room will be in relation to Joffrey’s. 

“Here we are,” Lord Tyrion says at last, stopping outside a door that can only belong to the king. 

“Is he already here?” Jeyne asks nervously, her hand squeezing Ros’s.

“No; you lovely ladies will surprise him when he comes back from his supper,” Lord Tyrion says with a pleased sort of grin as he ushers them inside.

The room is certainly fit for a king. It’s enormous, bigger even than the nicer bedrooms in the brothel. The bed, which is a monstrous size, is canopied, and there are not one, but  _ two _ hearths in the room. 

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Lord Tyrion urges. “There’s fruit on the table, and wine...somewhere around here. I shall send for a member of the kingsguard to make certain my nephew...finds you.”

Ros squeezes Jeyne’s hand in warning.

“Thank you again, ladies,” he says before closing the door. 

Ros presses her ear to the door and listens. “He’s gone,” she says after a long moment. She pulls open the door. “Now’s your chance.”

Jeyne takes a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” Ros says softly.

Jeyne stops and starts towards the table, where she takes one of the bowls of fruit. An idea is cooking.

“Where’s she going?” she hears Daisy ask just before the door shuts.

Jeyne takes a deep breath and starts down the corridor, trying to look purposeful as she goes. Her dress is nice enough to be mistaken for a handmaid’s; surely no one would question a handmaid carrying a bowl of fruit. 

And no one does. No one even looks twice at her as she strides purposefully down the corridor, holding her stolen bowl of fruit as if it is vital she delivers it to her master or mistress. In many ways, it  _ is _ vital she delivers it. 

When she’s fairly certain she’s covered the entire floor and still hasn’t seen any obvious signs of Sansa, she decides to approach the first person she sees. In this case, it is another handmaid, who comes out of a room and carefully shuts the door behind her.

“Excuse me,” she says politely, stopping the other woman in her tracks. “Could you tell me how to get to Lady Sansa’s room? I was asked to bring these to her.”

“I can take those,” the woman offers, reaching for the bowl of fruit.

Jeyne yanks back the bowl. “No...I should be the one to bring it to her.”

The other woman’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I...because,” Jeyne stammers. “She asked for me.”

“No she did not!” the woman shouts, her accent thick in her outrage. “I am her handmaiden, and I know she did not ask for you! What do you want with her?”

Before Jeyne can think of a lie, the door behind the handmaiden opens, and standing there…

...is Sansa. 

She looks much the same. A little older, perhaps, but Jeyne supposes age comes with grief. There is none of the bright-eyed innocence there once was. Now there is only wariness.

“ _ Jeyne _ ?”

She could cry, so happy is she to be recognized. Sansa has not forgotten her. 

“You know this girl?” the handmaiden asks in disbelief.

Sansa grabs Jeyne’s arm, pulling her into her room. “Leave us,” she instructs the handmaiden. “Tell no one.”

The other woman purses her lips but says nothing as Sansa closes the door.

“You trust her?” Jeyne asks, glancing at the door.

“I do,” Sansa says, also glancing at the door. “She’s not like the other ladies at court.” She turns to Jeyne, taking the bowl out of her hands and setting it on the table so she can hold Jeyne’s hands. “Jeyne, what  _ happened _ to you?”

Jeyne takes a deep breath. “Let’s sit down.”

Sansa leads her to the bed, where Jeyne folds her hands in her lap and takes a deep breath. 

“After you went to meet with the queen, Littlefinger came for me and told me he was taking me to see my father. I was foolish enough to believe him.” She takes a deep breath, eyes on her hands. She doesn’t think she can bear to look at Sansa as she tells her this next part. “He took me to his brothel.”

“His  _ brothel _ ?” Sansa repeats in surprise. 

Jeyne nods, still not looking at her friend. “He owns a brothel. And he...he made me...he made me a whore.”

“No,” Sansa says at once. When Jeyne looks at her, her eyes are wide and disbelieving. “Lord Baelish would never...there has to be some kind of mistake--”

“There is no mistake.” Jeyne’s voice turns firm as anger seeps into her. “He keeps me in his brothel and whores me out to men who want to bed a girl who’s barely bled. I can’t leave.”

“Then how are you here?” Sansa demands, and underneath the outrage, Jeyne can hear terror. “If he won’t let you leave, how did you get here?”

“He went to the Stormlands.”

“Why didn’t you run away?” Sansa asks, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you leave?”

Jeyne reaches for her hand. “Sansa...Theon Greyjoy is here. In King’s Landing. He’s going to take us to your mother and Robb.”

Sansa’s breath catches. “ _ What _ ?”

“He’s here,” Jeyne repeats. “He’s come to take us away. I came to the Red Keep to find you and tell you.”

“But I can’t leave.” Sansa’s voice rises in pitch. “I...I can’t...they won’t let me…”

So, Sansa is afraid too. And why wouldn’t she be? She’s betrothed to the king who took her father’s head. What horrors has she faced in the Red Keep?

“Theon will take us away. He’ll find a way.” She grips Sansa’s hand tighter. “We can leave here, Sansa. We can leave and go North, and no one will ever hurt us again.”

Sansa’s eyes fill with tears. Jeyne wraps her arms around her, drawing in the taller girl for a hug. Sansa returns the embrace, breathing hard.

“They’re horrible to me,” she whispers. “Joffrey and Cersei. Today Joffrey had his Kingsguard strip me and beat me in front of the entire court.”

Jeyne’s grip tightens on her friend. “He’s a monster.”

“He is.” Sansa’s tears drip onto Jeyne’s shoulder. “I can’t marry him, Jeyne, I  _ can’t _ .”

“You won’t.” Jeyne pulls back. “But Sansa, listen...in order to get you out of here, you have to help Theon and me figure out how to get you out of the Red Keep.”

“I don’t know how.” She shakes her head regretfully. “They keep me locked in here; every time I leave, someone follows me. The maids whisper about my every move.”

“But you trust that one out there?”

She nods. “She’s different. I know she’s not working for Cersei.”

“Could  _ she _ get you out of here? Your handmaid, I mean?” Jeyne asks.

Sansa bites her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t see how. There are too many eyes in the Red Keep.”

“Do you ever leave? For tourneys or...to visit the Great Sept?”

Sansa flinches at the mention. Of course; the Great Sept was where they cut off Lord Stark’s head. Sansa had been there, or so Jeyne heard; she’d been standing on the platform, right there with Joffrey when he’d made the order. Jeyne is certain that her father is dead, but at least she had been spared the sight. She had not had to stand there, helpless, as the man she was supposed to marry ordered her father’s head stricken from his shoulders.

“I never leave,” Sansa says. “But...there might be a time. Later.” She bites her lip again. “If I think of something...I’ll send Shae to you. That’s my handmaiden. She’ll find you and tell you if I think of a way.”

“Alright. But hurry; I can’t stand living in that brothel.”

Sansa hugs her. “I will.”

“We have to help each other, Sansa.”

“Yes...yes, of course.”

Jeyne pulls back. Her eyes sting with tears and her throat is tight, but the smile on her face is genuine. “I’m glad to see you, Sansa. Even if it is like this.”

“I’m glad to see you as well,” Sansa returns earnestly. “You...you’ll be alright, won’t you?”

Jeyne forces a smile. “I’ll manage. Just don’t wait too long to figure out an escape.”

“I won’t. I don’t want to stay here a moment longer than I have to.”

A knock sounds on the door, making both girls clutch each other for fear they’ve been discovered.

“My lady?” The handmaid from before, Shae, pokes her head through the door. “There are two...women, looking for your friend. It seems important.”

Jeyne rises on shaky legs. “I’m coming.” She turns to Sansa. “Don’t forget me.”

“Nor you me.”

With one last press of her hand, Jeyne slides from the room. Ros and Daisy are indeed out in the corridor, where a sniffling Daisy is being supported by Ros. 

“What happened?” Jeyne asks in alarm, running to loop Daisy’s other arm around her shoulders.

“The king happened,” Ros says shortly. “We have to find Lord Tyrion, come on.”

Jeyne’s heart pounds as they make their way to the Tower of the Hand. “What happened, Ros?”

“He made her b-beat me,” Daisy sobs. “He g-gave her a s-s-scepter and she...oh!”

“Why are we going to Lord Tyrion? Shouldn’t we leave?” Jeyne asks, terrified.

“The king ordered us to go to Lord Tyrion so he could see.” Ros’s face is grim. “He never even wanted to touch us.”

Jeyne is suddenly, fervently glad she wasn’t with the other two women. What would Joffrey have done to her? What if he had recognized her? He would’ve had her beaten, or worse. 

She will not let Sansa marry that monster.

.

The walk to the Tower of the Hand is a long one, full of people staring at the three whores. Jeyne keeps her head down, loath to be recognized. Ros, on the other hand, keeps her head held high, defying anyone to say anything to her or her companions. Jeyne wishes, not for the first time, that she could be more like Ros, that she could not care what people think. She wishes she was unafraid like Ros, bold and brave and beautiful. 

When they finally do reach Lord Tyrion’s chamber, he is horrified to see the marks littering Daisy’s legs and back. 

“I cannot apologize enough for endangering you,” he says sincerely. “I had hoped that my nephew only needed to relieve some tension, but it is clear now that he needs far more than a tumble. I truly, deeply apologize, ladies.”

He feeds them and pours them wine, and after a while Daisy’s sniffles subside. He sends them back to the brothel in his litter with triple the amount of gold he had originally promised.

Jeyne sleeps in Daisy’s bed that night, rubbing salve on her bruises and stroking her hair until she falls asleep. 

So, this is why Littlefinger gives them pretty dresses and silk bed hangings. This is why they eat and drink like lords and ladies, why men pay so much to lie with them. It’s so that when they’re raped and beaten, when they’re lying in bed muffling tears in their satin pillows, they can think,  _ It’s not so bad, really. It could always be worse. I have nice things. I eat well. I can endure a little cruelty for so much kindness. _

But it isn’t kindness. It’s cruelty only playing at being kind. It isn’t kindness to ply them with nice things only so they will endure the bad ones. 

Jeyne turns her face into the pillow and weeps.


	5. SANSA I

Sansa can’t sleep that night, her heart thudding every time she thinks about her conversation with Jeyne. It had been wonderful and terrible to see the other girl again. Wonderful because she hadn’t known what had become of her friend, and terrible because she had finally learned what had become of her friend. 

How could Littlefinger do that to her? Why couldn’t he have made her Sansa’s handmaiden, or even a scullion, or sent her away? Why did he have to take her to his brothel (she shudders every time she thinks about it) and force her to pleasure men? Jeyne’s father might have been a steward, but their house was a noble one, and Jeyne could have married a lord. But now…

_ Who will marry her now? _

She turns on her side, stomach turning as she thinks about Lord Baelish. He had loved her mother, perhaps still does, and he has always been so kind to Sansa. How could he be so gallant one moment and so horrible the next?

_ Joffrey was like that _ , she remembers. Sometimes he still is. But lately he’s been more horrible than gallant. It’s because he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. She’s the daughter and sister of traitors, and he is the king; he can do whatever he likes to her, and no one can stop him. Why should he play the gallant when he doesn’t have to?

Does Littlefinger only play the gallant because he has to? Is he as horrible as Joffrey underneath it all? He must be; what sort of man would force a young girl of noble birth to sell her own body? 

She turns on her other side, taking a deep, steadying breath. Theon will get them both out of here, and then no one will ever be horrible to them again.

.

Shae clucks over her when she helps Sansa dress in the morning. 

“You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“I couldn’t.” 

“Because of that girl.”

Sansa hesitates to tell Shae about Jeyne. She is sure, somehow, that Shae does not work for Cersei, and that she would not tell anyone that a strange girl came to Sansa’s room last night. But if she tells Shae  _ why _ Jeyne had come, then Shae will know she’s trying to leave. Even if Shae decides not to share this information, if and when Sansa  _ does _ leave, surely they’ll question her? They’ll want to know where Sansa disappeared to--and who better to tell them than the woman who brushes her hair, sets her table, and empties her chamberpot? 

“Yes,” Sansa allows. 

Shae gives her a scrutinizing look. “You don’t have to tell me who she is or why she came. I won’t tell anyone if you do. But you have to be better at keeping secrets. You’re lucky I found her before someone else did.”

“I know.” Sansa stares at her reflection. She wonders if anyone else saw Jeyne entering her room--or leaving it. “If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it?”

“I am your handmaiden,” comes the droll reply. 

“I mean, if I asked you to do something...secret? Something no one can know about?”

The brush pauses in her hair. “What sort of thing?”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “If I asked you to bring a message to somebody?”

The brush resumes its stroking. “I could do that.”

“And you wouldn’t tell anyone or let anyone know what you were doing?”

“No.”

Sansa had a feeling Shae would say yes, but she feels better for hearing it straight from her lips. “Good.”

“Do you need me to take a message to someone?” Shae asks.

“Not yet. But...hopefully soon.”

Shae nods. “You only have to say the word.” She’s quiet for a long moment, and then stoops to whisper in Sansa’s ear, “Princess Myrcella is being sent to Dorne. If you can get out of the Keep to see her off, I might know a way to get you out of this city.”

And before Sansa can react, Shae stands up and bustles over to the wardrobe. “The green today, my lady?”

“Yes,” Sansa says faintly. “Shae, what did you mean--”

“There’s a hole in the sleeve,” Shae interrupts, holding up the dress. “Shall I take it to that seamstress you like?”

“Seamstress…?”

“The one who came last night?” Shae’s voice becomes pointed.

Sansa catches on. “Oh. Yes. I’ll write down the directions for you so you don’t get lost again.”

Shae bows her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Very well, my lady.” 

Sansa goes to her desk, pulling out paper and quill. 

_ Littlefinger’s brothel _

_ Ask for Jeyne _

She hands the slip of paper to Shae. “Don’t lose that.”

“I won’t, my lady.” Shae tucks the paper into her pocket and then holds out the green dress. 

Sansa feels giddy with anticipation. She may have a way out of this. She may get to go home.

All she has to do now is wait. 


	6. JEYNE III

Jeyne is drowsing in Daisy’s bed when Ros comes to her. She had slept fitfully the night before, thinking about all that had transpired and all that was still to come. As good as it had been to see Sansa, it hadn’t inspired confidence. Sansa’s circumstances are perhaps more dire than Jeyne realized, and the knowledge that she and Theon will have to work even harder to free Sansa has left her feeling deflated. 

“There’s a woman here to see you,” Ros says. “Says she was sent by your friend.”

Jeyne sits up. “My friend?” 

“You’d better come and see.”

Jeyne dresses quickly, running a brush through her hair before following Ros down to Littlefinger’s study. 

Sansa’s handmaiden, Shae, is waiting for her. Jeyne feels her heart leap. Has Sansa thought of a plan already? 

“You remember me?” Shae asks.

Jeyne nods. 

Shae glances at Ros.

“She’s safe,” Jeyne assures her. 

Shae nods and turns her gaze back to Jeyne.“My lady sent me here. Or, I offered to come here and tell you.” She steps closer. “Princess Myrcella is being sent to Dorne. She will have to sail, and much of the court will accompany her to the docks.”

Jeyne trades hopeful looks with Ros. “Sansa will be there?”

“Probably. I can’t think why she wouldn’t.” 

Jeyne bites her lip. “But she’ll never be able to get away while so many eyes are on her.”

“Unless their eyes are on something else.” Shae’s eyes are twinkling. “If there was some...distraction.”

“What sort of distraction?” Ros asks, curious.

Shae shakes her head. “I don’t know yet. A riot, perhaps.”

“How would one start a riot?” Jeyne asks, but Ros looks thoughtful.

“It wouldn’t be hard. The smallfolk despise the great, especially with Joffrey raising taxes to fund his war against Robb Stark. And Princess Myrcella is sure to get a grand send-off, which will cause some grumbling. It would only take one person to set the others off. A shout. Throwing something. Once the smallfolk see that one of their own isn’t afraid of the highborn, the others will follow.”

Jeyne hadn’t realized there was so much derision for the highborn. “So, someone starts a riot, and while the court is distracted, Sansa slips away. Won’t people turn on her for being a highborn?”

“They won’t be armed; Theon will be. If he can get her here, we can disguise her as one of us.”

It’s a solid enough plan, though it doesn’t leave much room for error. Suppose Theon  _ can’t _ get her here? Suppose the crowd turns on Sansa and harms Theon?

“What about after she gets here?” Jeyne asks. “Won’t they be looking for her?”

“They will close the city gates,” Shae confirms. “She is too important for them to lose.”

Jeyne’s shoulders sag. 

“We’ll figure something out,” Ros soothes, putting her hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “Go to Theon and tell him what we have so far.”

Jeyne nods and then turns to Shae. “Thank you for coming here.”

“Sansa is a sweet girl; she doesn’t deserve any of this.” Her voice softens. “And neither do you.”

Jeyne drops her eyes. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you out,” Ros offers, accompanying Shae out of the brothel. Jeyne follows, watching from the threshold as the other woman leaves.

“It was good of her to come,” Ros comments.

“It was.”

“Do you trust her?”

Jeyne shrugs. “Sansa trusts her; that’s enough for me.”

Ros is quiet for a moment. “I think she’s loyal to your Lady Sansa. But you must be careful, little Jeyne; you can’t trust everyone you come across.”

“I know,” she says dully. “I’ve known that for a while now.”

.

She finds Theon at the inn where he’d told her he’d be staying. It’s the first time Jeyne has ventured out beyond the brothel’s walls, and the sights and sounds of the bustling city practically overwhelm her. After weeks spent in the sweet, perfumed air of the brothel, the dirty streets of King’s Landing threaten to overcome her. She holds the sash of her dress up to her nose and mouth, trying not to breathe in the stink as she picks her way through the muck and towards Theon’s inn.

He’s hunched over a bowl of stew when she enters, a sour look on his face, but it clears when he sees her. 

“What’s happened?” he asks softly but urgently as she sits on the bench across from him.

She folds her hands in her lap, gathering the courage to speak. “I got into the Red Keep last night. I spoke to Sansa.”

His eyes widen. “And?”

“Princess Myrcella is being sent to Dorne. I don’t know when. But she’ll be sailing, and the court will see her off at the docks. Sansa will almost certainly be with them. We thought...we thought if we could distract the court, cause some kind of riot, then Sansa could get away while no one was looking.”

He considers this. “It will be hard...but it’s the best plan we’ve got right now.” He rubs his jaw. “How would we start a riot, though?”

“Ros said it wouldn’t be hard; we’d just need one person to shout or throw something.”

“Could be.” He keeps rubbing his jaw. “And then what?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Ros said we could hide her in the brothel, but they’ll close the city gates until they find her, and if they find her in the brothel…”

“Then this will all have been for naught,” he finishes. “Right.”

They sit for a long moment, contemplating.

“The city gates will close,” he says at last, slowly. “But not the docks.”

Jeyne lifts her head. “The docks?”

“They might search the ships, but they won’t close them off the way they’ll close off the gates,” he explains, excited. “If we can get Sansa on a ship, we can leave the city while they’re still searching for her.”

Jeyne straightens up. “But you just said they’ll search the ships.”

“They’ll be looking for a highborn girl with red hair. If we can hide her hair and make her look lowborn…” He smiles. “I think I know what to do.”

Her heart thumps. “You do?” 

“Can you find out when Princess Myrcella leaves?”

“I have to wait for Sansa to send word, but...yes.”

“Good. Find me as soon as you know.”

“What are you planning?” she wants to know. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to say until I’m sure it can work, but if it  _ does _ work...we’ll soon be gone, Jeyne Poole.”

.

The next few days are spent in a scramble, with Jeyne, Ros, Theon, and Shae all running about trying to set their plan into motion. 

Ros has decided to come with Jeyne, Sansa, and Theon. 

“Littlefinger will kill me when he comes back and finds you missing, and he’ll know I had a hand in helping Sansa Stark escape,” she explains to Jeyne. “Better for me to leave with you.”

“You’ll come back to Winterfell with us?” Jeyne asks hopefully.

Ros shakes her head. “There’s nothing for me in Winterfell. But the Free Cities are across the Narrow Sea. Pentos, Braavos, Lys...plenty of places for a girl like me.”

The thought of being parted from Ros distresses Jeyne. “But...you could be a lady-in-waiting to Sansa…”

“I don’t want to be a lady-in-waiting,” Ros says gently. “I like being a whore.”

“But across the Narrow Sea…”

“I can’t be a whore anywhere else in Westeros; it would be a step down for me.” She touches Jeyne’s shoulder. “Besides, there’s war in Westeros. It’s not safe for a girl like me.”

“It’s not safe for any of us,” Jeyne reminds her.

“I know that.” Ros touches her cheek. “You’re like the sister I never had, Jeyne, but I can’t go back to Winterfell. I like this life.”

“How?”

“I wasn’t forced into it,” the older woman says gently. “I had choices. Not many, but I had them. I tried being a few things before I landed on this one, and it stuck. Maybe someday I’ll try something else that will stick, but for now, it’s what I want to do.”

It feels like a betrayal to Jeyne. She relies so much on Ros, who’s always been kind to her and has looked out for her from the beginning. What will she do without the older woman? What if she never sees her again?

And why would Ros want to be a whore? How can she like the way men touch her and use her? She could be a lady-in-waiting to Sansa, which is more than a girl of Ros’s station could ever dream. And she wants to throw it away to work in a pleasure house in Essos?

“It’s different for her,” Theon tries to explain when Jeyne confides in him. “She likes it.”

“But  _ how _ ?” 

“Lots of people like it. Lots of  _ women _ .” His face softens. “You’re still a child, and you were forced into this life. Of course you hate it. It just...isn’t that way for everyone.”

She contemplates this, wondering if there could ever be a way to like it. When she’s older, perhaps, and with someone who won’t hurt her. 

_ But no one gentle would want to lie with me. Not after this. _

She finishes her ale and rises. “I should go. Do you need anything else from me?”

“No.” He lays his hand over hers. “You know what to do?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“You’ll wear the knife I gave you?”

Another nod. “Yes.” She sleeps with it under her mattress, just in case. She has no idea how to use it and hopes she doesn’t have to. 

“Good girl.” He releases her hand. “Stay close to Ros.”

“I will.” She leaves the inn, heart pounding. Tomorrow, if all goes well, they leave King’s Landing.

But that’s assuming all will go well.


	7. SANSA II

The morning of Myrcella’s departure dawns bright and clear. Sansa breaks her fast with the royal family, keeping her eyes on her plate and only speaking when spoken to. To her relief, most of the attention in the room seems to be on Myrcella, who keeps insisting in a strained voice that she’s not hungry. Sansa can’t imagine that she would be; she’s about to leave the only home she’s ever known for a faraway land reputed to be full of savages. Even at the court of Sunspear, Myrcella’s bound to face a whole host of issues. There’s bad blood between the Lannisters and the Martells, and it’s no secret that Lord Tyrion hopes to make a peace offering out of his niece. 

But Sansa can barely spare a thought for Myrcella, so consumed is she with her own imminent departure. Shae has told her hardly anything, which is in large part because Shae doesn’t know much herself. They had all agreed that the less Sansa and Shae know, the better; that way, if their plan is foiled and the two women are interrogated about it, they can honestly admit to no knowledge of the escape plan. 

“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Sansa had asked Shae over and over, but the handmaiden was resolute.

“I have a powerful protector here; no harm will come to me,” she had assured Sansa. 

Sansa only hopes that Shae is right; if anyone even remotely suspects that Sansa ran away of her own accord, they’ll question her handmaiden, and that will bring trouble. She hopes this protector is just as powerful as Shae says.

After breakfast, much of the court proceeds out of the Red Keep on foot. Sansa, who hasn’t left the Keep since her father was beheaded, is shocked at the sights around her. Not that she’d ever spent much time in the city itself, but the stark reality of how dirty and dingy it is compared to life behind the red walls startles her. She’s overwhelmed by how many people line the street to watch them, and it’s all she can do to blindly follow the feet in front of her. 

Is Theon somewhere in this crowd, ready to snatch her away as soon as no one’s looking? Is Jeyne? Where will they go? What will they do? 

At long last, they reach the landing from which Myrcella’s boat will take her to her ship. Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard will accompany her on the  _ Seaswift _ to Braavos, where a contingent from Dorne will escort them to Sunspear. It’s a long journey for the princess, who has never been away from her mother for more than a few days at a time. Will she ever see her mother again? Will she ever come back to King’s Landing?

_ Will I? _ Sansa wonders.

Myrcella says goodbye to Joffrey first. She curtsies prettily and calls him “Your Grace”, and though he offers little more than a kiss on the forehead, Sansa sees his eyes brighten uncharacteristically. Will Joffrey truly miss his little sister? How can such a monster be capable of such affection for another person?

“Goodbye, Sansa,” Myrcella says next, offering Sansa a wavering smile.

“Goodbye, Myrcella.” Sansa hugs her. “I wish you safe travels and prosperity.”

“Thank you.” Myrcella lowers her voice to a whisper. “I wish you luck with my brother.” And before Sansa can react, the little princess pulls away and turns to her uncle, who embraces her warmly and wishes her well. Next is little Tommen, who can’t stop crying; Myrcella says something to make him smile and kisses his plump cheek before turning to her mother.

As cruel as Cersei can be, as much as Sansa hates and fears her, she feels her heart breaking when she watches mother and daughter embrace. Cersei holds herself together well, but as soon as Myrcella isn’t looking, the queen seems to age ten years, grief heavy on her shoulders. 

Finally, Myrcella climbs in her boat. The High Septon burns incense, intoning a prayer to the Seven, and as soon as the boat pushes off, tears fall down Myrcella’s cheeks. 

Tommen is still crying, his septa wiping his cheeks and fussing over him. 

“You sound like a little cat mewling for its mother,” Joffrey says derisively. “Princes don’t cry.” 

“I saw you cry,” Sansa says before she can help it. 

Joffrey whirls to look at her, face red. “Did you say something, my lady?” he demands. 

“My little brother cried when I left Winterfell,” she amends hastily. 

“So?” 

“It seems a normal thing,” she explains haltingly. 

Joffrey looks as if he’s never dealt with someone so stupid before. “Is your little brother a prince?”

_ Yes _ . “No.”

“Not really relevant then, is it?”

Sansa holds her tongue as Joffrey leads the party back into the city. So consumed is she with hiding her resentment towards him that it takes her a few moments to notice the jeers being thrown at the king. 

“Seven blessings,  _ Your Grace _ .”

“Bastard!”

“Murderer!”

“We’re hungry, Your Grace!”

“ _ Brotherfucker _ !”

And then, the worst insult of all; a pile of dung spatters across Joffrey’s cheek.

“Who threw that?!” Joffrey shouts as the crowd erupts in shouts and jeers. 

Up ahead, Lord Tyrion barks orders at the kingsguard. They close in on the royal family, shielding them as the crowd surges forward. Sansa’s ladies-in-waiting hold tight to her hands, gasping and shrieking as the kingsguard begin hacking and sawing at every person who comes near them. 

“I want them executed!” Sansa can hear Joffrey seething from where he’s tucked under the Hound’s arm.

“They want the same for you,” comes the stern reply.

“Sansa!”

She turns her head and sees Theon’s face in the crowd. She moves towards him, disengaging herself from her ladies. The press of bodies around them aids in her escape, helping her move away from the royal party and towards Theon’s outstretched hand. Hands tear at her dress and hair, but she ignores them, pushing until Theon’s hand closes around hers. He tugs her into his side, wrapping one arm around her and using the other to brandish his sword. He cuts a path through the crowd, leading them into the dark shadow of an alley. A few men give chase, but they are unarmed, and Theon has been training with masters-at-arms since he was a small boy. Sansa cannot help but watch as Theon’s sword cuts through flesh and bone, sending blood spraying in jagged red arcs. The sight of blood has never really upset her, not like it had upset Jeyne, but being so close to it sends her stomach lurching. She clings to Theon, breathing hard as they spill out onto a street with fewer people.

“You’re alright?” he pants, his Northern burr a comfort to her. 

She nods mutely.

“Good. Stay close to me now.”

She doesn’t have much choice with his arm still wrapped around her, stumbling as she tries to keep up with him. She has no idea where they’re going, but he clearly does; in a few moments’ time, he presses her into a dark alcove and thrusts a bundle of grey fabric at her. 

“Put this on.”

He turns his back as she fumbles with the clasps of her dress, sliding off the pink gown and tugging the grey dress over her head. There’s a dull white habit to accompany it; a septa’s habit. So this is her disguise. She could almost smile at the ingenuity of it. 

She dresses quickly and unpins her hair, tucking it into the septa’s habit. When she’s finished, Theon takes her pink gown and rips it into pieces to make it look as if it had been torn from her by lusty members of the crowd. This done, he takes her hand and leads her down a winding series of streets and alleys, sword unsheathed and ready should anyone approach. No one does; their attention all seems to be with the royal family. 

Theon suddenly stops and lets out a low whistle. A face peeks out from behind a corner.

“Jeyne!”

“That’s Septa Luwina to you,” she says, touching her own septa’s habit. 

Another woman appears beside Jeyne, a beautiful redhead who Sansa doesn’t know. 

“Who…?”

“This is Ros; you can trust her,” Jeyne assures her. “She’s from Winter Town; she looked after me in the brothel. She’s coming with us.”

Sansa trusts Jeyne and Theon in this; she nods, smoothing down her skirt.

“Right. Here’s the plan,” Theon says, sheathing his sword. “We’re sailing to the Riverlands on the  _ Fair Wind _ . You and Jeyne are septas; say what you will if anyone asks, but my feeling is they won’t. Ros and I are traveling on our own business; you don’t know us, have never seen us before.”

Sansa nods. “I understand.”

“Right. When we dock, you’ll just go with me; anyone asks, I’m accompanying you as there’s war in the Riverlands. It will be few weeks’ ride to Robb’s camp.”

Sansa’s heart leaps.  _ Robb’s camp _ . She’s going to see him soon, and her mother. 

“That all make sense?”

She nods again. “Yes.”

“Good. Go ahead with Jeyne; I’ll be right behind you.”

Sansa turns expectantly to Jeyne, who beckons her down an alley. The two girls walk together, lifting their skirts over the muck on the streets and trying to ignore what is surely a terrible riot not far away. 

“This was Theon’s idea,” Jeyne says softly. “They’ll think you were taken by the riots; they won’t even think twice about two septas on a ship bound for the Riverlands.”

It’s a good idea, and Theon’s right; assuming the royal party made it back to the Red Keep, it will take a long time for them to suppress the riots enough to send out a search party for the missing Stark. Sansa will be long gone by then, and none will be the wiser.

The  _ Fair Wind _ is sitting in the harbor when they finally make it to the docks. The captain, a ruddy-faced man with sun-browned skin, helps the two “septas” aboard.

“Lucky you came when you did, sisters; there’s trouble in the city.”

“‘And yea, though I walk in the shadow of evil, the Light of the Seven goeth beside me,’” Jeyne quotes smoothly.

“I suppose it do!” the captain chortles. “Make yourselves comfortable, we’ll be pushing off shortly.”

But the two girls can’t seem to tear themselves from the deck, watching the docks for Theon and Ros. Sansa feels a pang of fear that something may have happened to them, that the riot spread and Theon and Ros are in danger.

But she has no cause to fear; Ros appears before long, and close behind her, Theon. Sansa’s hands, which have been gripping the side of the ship, relax, and she wills her heart to slow. 

“How soon do we leave?” Ros asks the captain when she boards.

“Soon, lass, if this mess in the city doesn’t come our way.”

Sansa, who has just calmed down, feels another spike of fear. “You think it will?” she blurts.

“I don’t rightly know,” he admits. “Can’t see why it would. But you never know at times like this.”

His answer does little to comfort Sansa, whose fear must show on her face.

“Never you mind, Septa; you’re in good hands on the  _ Fair Wind _ ,” he says jollily. “We won’t let no harm come to you.”

She isn’t comforted; if the crowd was bold enough to throw dung at the king, what will they do to a mere captain of a small galley?

“Captain,” one of the sailors says uneasily. “Perhaps we should shove off early...just in case…”

“Aye, perhaps you’re right. All of our passengers are present and accounted for, and we’re unlikely to gain anymore.”

“Isn’t that a comfort, Sister?” Jeyne asks, squeezing Sansa’s hand.

But Sansa has some mad idea that the riot will surge out onto the docks at any moment, or that the Gold Cloaks will suddenly come tearing towards the ship looking for her.

But they don’t. No one else comes down the docks, and after a few moments, the ship eases away from the dock, out of the harbor, and out towards the open sea.

Sansa feels tears streak down her cheeks. 

At last, she’s going home.

  
  



	8. THEON III

The journey to Gulltown passes without incident--almost to Theon’s dismay. That business in King’s Landing had gotten his heart pumping, had filled him with an energy he had not had since the Whispering Wood. Now, stuck on a ship, he begins to feel the same lethargy he’d felt in King’s Landing, waiting at the inn for something to happen.

It isn’t that he wants to put the girls in danger or anything like that. It’s only that when Robb had sent him south, he had thought there would be a bit more adventure. It had sounded like a dangerous mission, and it had been, of course, but these long periods of waiting make him feel helpless. 

It will be dangerous in the Riverlands, though. If they don’t run into Lannister men, then they’ll surely run into outlaws, and unlike Lannister men, outlaws will have no deference for septas traveling to their holy callings. 

He’s glad he gave Jeyne a knife, and thinks he ought to find one for Sansa as well, though he hopes they’ll never have to use them. He’d seen the trepidation in Jeyne’s eyes when she’d taken it from him, the uncertain way her fingers had gripped the handle. The girl has no idea how to use it, but he’d rather her have it than not. If they should be set upon by outlaws who mean to rape the girls, at least she’ll have a way of protecting herself.

And Sansa, of course, he reminds himself. Sansa will need a knife. Robb will never forgive him if he doesn’t return with his sister--or if he does return his sister, but not his sister’s maidenhead.

Robb will want to marry her to a Northern lord, no doubt. A Karstark or an Umber, or perhaps a Manderly. There again, he may marry her to someone from one of the other realms to earn their swords; her cousin Robin Arryn, perhaps, or one of the Tyrells of the Reach. Someone who can bring more to the North than a Frey girl ever could. 

Poor Robb. He ought to have been the one making advantageous political marriages. And while it’s true that they’d needed to cross that bridge and he had been only a lord at the time, not a king, it’s also true that Lord Walder’s price had been too steep. Now some mealy-mouthed, rat-faced offspring of Westeros’s most prominent lecher will sit at Robb’s side and bear his children. 

Won’t it have been worth it, though, if they win this war? If they have Lord Walder and all the force of the Riverlands behind them, won’t it be worth one mealy-mouthed, rat-faced queen? 

Troubled by his thoughts and no longer wishing to be, Theon rises, seeking out Ros. 

He fucks her in a dark, quiet corner of the hold, muffling his grunts in her shoulder. He doesn’t have to see her face to know that she’s wearing that grin she always wears when she’s being fucked. It’s one of the things he likes about her. 

After, they sprawl amongst the sacks of grain and talk about what she’ll do in the Free Cities. Join a pleasure house in Lys, become a madam, maybe someday a Pentosi merchant’s mistress. 

“Jeyne’s going to miss you,” he says offhandedly. Even now, even under the ruse of a septa, Jeyne can’t help her visible adoration for the other woman. 

“I know.” Ros sighs. “I’m going to miss her. But we want different things. Different lives. I’d like to think we’ll meet again someday, but…”

She doesn’t have to finish the thought. He knows what she means. 

“Listen,” she says, looking more serious than he’s ever seen her. “She’s...fragile. I want you to look after her when I leave. Take care of her. You and Sansa are all she has.”

“I’ll look after her,” he promises. And he will. She’s right; Jeyne needs looking after. Lady Catelyn will see to it once they’re back in Winterfell, but that’s a long way from now. For now, he’ll have to do. 

When he heads back to his bedroll, his foot accidentally kicks Jeyne’s in the dark. She sits upright, eyes wide and terrified.

“It’s all right,” he whispers, crouching down. “You’re safe.”

The terror leaves her eyes. She lies back down, and after a moment, her gentle breathing tells him that she’s asleep

.

Several days pass on the ship, and no word of the outside world reaches them. They have no idea what came of the riot, whether anyone ever realized Sansa left the city or not. Does anyone suspect that she left on a ship bound for Gulltown in a septa’s habit? Probably not, but he can’t allow himself to get complacent. Besides, even if the Lannisters don’t suspect Sansa’s whereabouts, there are bound to be those loyal to the crown (or at least, to the reward money offered by the crown) who would sell out Sansa in a heartbeat. 

If the crew of the  _ Fair Wind _ have any suspicions about the four travelers, they do a remarkable job at hiding it. They are the very picture of courtesy to Sansa and Jeyne, they flirt and laugh with Ros, and they share their grog and stories with Theon. It’s hard to remember that there’s a war happening.

They stop in Gulltown to unload goods and take on more supplies. Some of the other passengers depart and a few more take their place. None of them bring news about King’s Landing, or of Sansa Stark.

Ros is one of those passengers to depart. She hugs Jeyne for a long moment and murmurs in her ear before she gets off the ship, shoulders back and head held high. Several Essosi ships sit in the harbor, and Theon knows Ros will book passage on one of them. Will this be the last he ever sees of her? He had thought he’d never see her again when she left Winterfell, but that hadn’t been the case. Is this goodbye for true? Or is it only goodbye until their paths cross again?

“I already miss her,” Jeyne admits, tears running down her cheeks. 

Theon doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s going to miss Ros too. 

.

From Gulltown, the  _ Fair Wind _ sails west for Saltpans. Though it’s a much shorter journey than that of King’s Landing to Gulltown, it’s still too long for poor Sansa, whose stomach has been sour ever since they went out to open sea. She spends most of the journey lying on her bedroll and moaning while Jeyne strokes her hand and tries to distract her. 

When they finally do make port at Saltpans, Theon makes a show of offering to escort the “septas” to their destination. The captain of the  _ Fair Wind _ looks on approvingly.

“You’re doing the Seven’s work, lad.” Lowering his voice, he adds, “And between you and me, the High Septon had no business sending those little girls to the Riverlands on their own. This war’s taken a nasty turn, and I’ve heard reports of Silent Sisters raped.”

Theon grimaces at this. He knew the disguise would do little to deter men whose hunger outweighed their piety, but to hear it put so bluntly…

Well. Riverrun is only a few days’ ride, and if the road is too rough, they can hire a skiff to take them down the Red Fork. In fact, he wonders if they ought not to do that anyway.

He asks the town’s innkeep when they finally disembark, the girls wobbling on legs that have forgotten how to walk on land. 

“There are outlaws on land and on river,” the man warns Theon. “And most of these men selling skiffs are working with those outlaws to rob you blind. See, you buy the skiff for an arm and a leg, he finds out where you’re going, and he sends his friends after you. They rob you, kick you off the skiff and then take it back to him so he can sell it all over again to some other poor fool.”

“So it’s safer to go by land?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. There are more outlaws on the road, and worse. ‘Course, there are more inns on the road; more places to seek shelter, which there aren’t on the river.”

“So no matter what I do, I’m going to get attacked.”

“Might be,” the innkeep says unhelpfully. “Might not be.”

“Thanks.” Theon stalks out of the inn, shaking his head.

“What did he say?” Jeyne asks.

“Says no matter what we do, someone’s going to come after us.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sag.

He thinks for a long moment. The skiff is more isolated, which is a good and bad thing. On the one hand, they might reach Riverrun unaccosted. On the other, they might get attacked and thrown in the river, if not killed. If they go by horse, they’ll be more vulnerable, more likely to run into other people. And yet, his gut tells him that that is the superior option.

“We’ll go by horse,” he decides. 

“Thank goodness,” Sansa sighs in relief. “I don’t think I can take anymore boats.”


	9. JEYNE IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depictions of rape and attempted rape in this chapter. If you feel you may be triggered, feel free to skip over this one.

She lies on the bed, helpless, as yet another man fucks her, his enormous body pinning down her tiny one while he grunts in her ear. Her back stings with fresh scars, and the pain between her legs throbs through her entire body. 

She remembers something. Something important. Something that can help her.

Slowly, her hand reaches under her pillow, her fingers curling around the handle of her knife.

“Jeyne?”

She wakes with a start, her hand still gripping the knife. When she opens her eyes, she sees Sansa peering at her from her bed. 

“You were dreaming,” the other girl tells her. “It sounded like a nightmare.”

Jeyne passes a hand over her eyes, breathing in deeply. Even though it was just a dream, even though it wasn’t real, she swears she can still feel the sting of the whip’s scars and the throb of pain between her legs. 

“I get nightmares too,” Sansa offers. 

_ Not like mine _ , Jeyne thinks. She doesn’t doubt that Sansa has her own nightmares, but none of them could be like Jeyne’s. Sansa still has her virtue, still has no idea what it feels like to have a man inside her, using her. She endured her own torment in the Red Keep, but none of her nightmares are like what Jeyne experiences. 

In many ways, she’s glad that her friend never had to endure such terror; in others, she almost resents her for it. Sansa has always had more than Jeyne; her father was a greater lord, her mother and siblings all survived the birthing bed, she was always beautiful whereas Jeyne was merely pretty. And now, Sansa is a princess, the sister of a king, and Jeyne…

Jeyne is a whore.

_ Was _ a whore, she reminds herself. But will the shame ever go away? 

Sansa gets out of bed and changes the linens between her legs. Her moonblood had come on her two days ago, the first time ever. Jeyne had had to show her what to do; she’d cut the bed sheet for Sansa and asked the innkeep’s wife for tea to ease her aches.

“Where did you learn all this?” Sansa had asked.

Ros. Of course. Ros had been there for Jeyne’s first blood, had been there for everything. Jeyne has never had a sister who lived more than a few days, but Ros had been like the sister she’d always wanted; older and wiser and able to teach her the ways of the world. Her departure had hurt Jeyne. It still does, truth be told. Soon Sansa is going to be reunited with her family, and Jeyne…

Jeyne has no one. 

She has Sansa and Theon, of course, but they aren’t really family. Sansa is her friend, but she has a family of her own, and Theon...well, Theon isn’t even her friend. Not really. He’s more Sansa’s family than anything. Ros, though...Ros had been all hers. The sister she’d always wanted and never had. She wonders where Ros is now, what she’s doing. Still on a ship across the Narrow Sea, no doubt, excited to start her new life in Essos. A life that doesn’t include Jeyne.

She gets out of bed, determined to stop feeling miserable. She washes her face with the water in the basin and dresses in her worn septa’s garment. 

They’ve been on the road for a few days now and still have a few more to go. They haven’t encountered many people on the road, and what few they have were all farmers and merchants. They have yet to meet any Lannister soldiers, and hope they never will. 

After a hearty breakfast of porridge and cured ham, the three travelers mount their horses and set out on the road again. 

“We’re nearing Stone Hedge,” Theon tells them. “The Bracken estate. It’s bound to be crawling with Lannisters, so we ought to go around it to the north.”

“We’re close, aren’t we?” Sansa asks. “To Riverrun?”

“Aye, but not so close that we won’t run into trouble if we aren’t careful.”

Sansa is impatient to get to Riverrun, both to see her family and also because she hates riding horses. Jeyne imagines it’s even less comfortable when she’s on her blood. 

A twig snaps in the forest, making all three heads snap to the side.

“What was that?” Sansa whispers.

“I don’t know.” Theon grips the pommel of his sword, shoulders tense as his eyes search the woods. But whatever it was, if anything, doesn’t make another move. 

“Could be a deer. Or a rabbit,” he murmurs.

“Or a person.”

“Hush now. No sense getting scared over nothing.” He releases the pommel, urging his horse to keep walking. “Come on.”

The two girls follow him, but Jeyne can’t help glancing at the woods periodically. 

“Are there outlaws in these woods?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“Might be,” Theon says shortly.

“ _ Are _ there?”

“I’ve heard there are.”

“Wouldn’t they leave two septas alone?” Sansa asks reasonably.

“I heard a man last night say that the Mountain raped a twelve-year-old girl who was promised to the Faith.”

“No one’s going to rape anyone,” Theon says sternly. “Stop worrying yourselves over nothing.”

“What if it’s not nothing?” Sansa presses. “What if--”

“ _ Enough _ . You’re just going to work yourselves into a fit if you go on like that.”

It is at that moment that someone tugs Jeyne off of her horse. She screams, kicking out as strong arms circle her waist and swing her onto the ground. She can hear Sansa and Theon shout and their horses whinny in alarm. She looks up and sees two other men reach for Sansa, but Theon swings his sword and tries to scare them off.

The man who pulled Jeyne out of her saddle looms over her now, leering as he pins her wrists to the dirt road. His face is dirty and glistening with sweat, his hands meaty and damp. 

“The Seven won’t want to have anything to do with you when I’m finished with you!” he says triumphantly. He lets go of one wrist long enough to tug at the hem of her skirt, but Jeyne is quicker; she bends her knee, bringing her thigh closer to her hand, and slips the knife out of the leather garter. Before the man can react, she plunges the knife into his neck, wincing when blood spatters her face. He makes a wet, gurgling sort of noise as he rolls off of her, clutching his throat. 

Jeyne scrambles back, breathing hard as she watches him writhe on the ground. The gurgling finally subsides, he stops moving, and then his eyes are staring up at the sky, glassy and unseeing.

Jeyne stares in fascination. She  _ killed _ this man. He was going to rape her and she killed him.

One thought and one thought only passes through her mind:

_ Good _ .

“Jeyne?”

She looks up and sees Sansa kneeling in front of her, peering at her with concern. 

“Jeyne, are you alright?”

It’s as if she’s watching herself from up above. The girl who sits on the ground with blood on her face is her, but when Jeyne tries to move or speak, the girl on the ground sits still and silent. 

“Jeyne?” Sansa asks, her voice rising in pitch, and though Jeyne tries to answer her, the girl on the ground says nothing. Does she even know Sansa is in front of her?

“She’s in shock,” Theon says. The other two men lie prone on the ground, dead like their companion. He wipes his blade on one of their shirts before sheathing it and kneeling beside Sansa. “Come on, we’ll take her to the stream and wash the blood off her face.”

“Will she be alright?”

Theon doesn’t answer.

Still from up above, Jeyne watches as Sansa and Theon guide her off the road and into the woods. When they come to the stream that runs alongside the road, they help her onto the rocks and then make her sit while Sansa washes the blood from her face. As the cold water touches her face, Jeyne comes down, down, down from above, until she’s finally inside her body again.

She looks at Sansa, who’s biting her lip, and then at Theon, who’s standing on the bank with his hand on his sword. And then she bursts into tears.

Sansa wraps her arms around her friend, stroking her back as Jeyne weeps into her shoulder. She’s glad the man is dead, glad he couldn’t rape her...so where, then, are these tears coming from? She doesn’t mourn this man’s death. 

_ I’m a murdering whore _ , a voice inside of her says.  _ I killed a man _ .

_ He was going to rape me. _

_ But I still killed him. _

“It’s alright,” Sansa murmurs. “It’s alright, you’re alright, Jeyne.”

With a start, Jeyne realizes she’s still gripping the knife. She dips it in the water, watching the swirls of red dissipate. When the knife is clean, she tucks it back into her garter. Her bottom is soaking wet from sitting on damp rocks, and she accepts Theon’s hand up.

“Alright?” he asks, peering down at her.

She shrugs, unsure of how to answer him. How can she be alright?

“It’s a shock, the first time you kill a man,” he says gently. 

“I hope it’s the last time.”

“So do I, little Poole.”


	10. SANSA III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have Jeyne Westerling appearing in this fic, but she's more like Talisa in the show? So just. Imagine Oona Chaplin but as a Westerosi noblewoman named Jeyne Westerling who tends wounded men on the battlefield. Does that make sense? Just. Roll with it.

The day is bright and clear when Sansa, Jeyne, and Theon finally ride up to Riverrun. Robb’s men are encamped all around the castle, their banners proudly displaying houses of the North and the Riverlands. When Sansa sees the Tully fish and Stark direwolf, her heart leaps in her chest.

_ Mother and Robb are here _ .

A pimple-faced sentry asks who they are, and it’s with pride that Theon announces himself.

“Theon Greyjoy with Lady Jeyne Poole and King Robb’s sister, Lady Sansa Stark.”

The sentry’s eyes widen. “Truly?”

“Fetch the king if you don’t believe me.”

“He went to the Crag to accept a surrender,” the youth says. “But Lady Catelyn is in the castle.”

“Then we’ll go to her.” Theon urges his horse forward, leading Sansa and Jeyne into the camp. 

Sansa grips the reins of her horse, eyes taking in the sprawling camp. Some men cast strange looks at them, but a few call out to Theon in greeting. He returns the shouts, smiling as he canters through the camp. 

Sansa has never been to Riverrun. Her mother had always told her about it, promising that she’d see it someday. It’s fitting, then, that her first time seeing it should be the moment she’ll be reunited with her mother.

A groom takes their horses, and then Theon is leading Sansa and Jeyne inside the great castle. A long corridor opens out into the castle’s great hall, where a few men sit at the trestle tables. One of them rises, approaching the three newcomers.

“Theon,” the man says, glancing at the two girls. “You’ve come back.”

“Where is Lady Catelyn?”

“She’s with our father. Who…?”

“Tell her I’ve brought her daughter.”

The other man’s eyes widen. “Her  _ daughter _ ?”

“Lord Edmure,” Theon says, drawing Sansa forward, “I give you your niece, Sansa Stark.”

So, this man is her uncle. She’s heard about him often enough, but she’d never actually met the man. He’s handsome, with auburn hair cropped close to his head and a strong jawline. 

“My lord,” she greets, curtsying.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” he says, awed. “You look just like your mother when she was your age, did you know?”

She smiles. “Thank you...Uncle.”

Edmure glances at Jeyne. “And you...must be Arya?”

“No, my lord; this is Jeyne of House Poole. Her father was Lord Stark’s steward.” 

“Ah.” Edmure’s face closes. “I’ll bring you to your mother, Sansa. This way.”

They follow Edmure up into Lord Hoster’s chambers--to her grandfather’s chambers. She’s never met him, either, but from what Theon’s told her, the time for meeting may be too late; his mind is gone, taken by the illness that renders his body immobile. 

Her lady mother sits at Lord Hoster’s bedside, and she looks up when the four visitors enter.

“Cat,” Edmure starts to say, but already her mother is standing, her face pale as she looks at Sansa.

“ _ Sansa _ !”

Sansa doesn’t hesitate, just runs right at her mother. The other woman catches her in her arms, pressing her tight against her and sobbing as she embraces her daughter.

Tears come to Sansa’s own eyes, blurring her vision and streaking down her cheeks. She breathes in the scent of her mother’s hair and neck, clutching her close. It’s been months since she last saw her mother, and being back in her arms makes her feel like a child again. 

“I feared I’d never see you again,” Catelyn sobs. 

“I feared the same.” 

Catelyn looks over her shoulder. “Arya...oh.” Her face visibly falls when she realizes that the other girl is not her younger daughter.

Sansa catches her hands. “She disappeared when Cersei killed Father’s household...no one knows what happened to her.”

Catelyn’s breath catches. “Is she…?”

“I don’t know, Mother.” Not for the first time, Sansa feels a pang of sorrow at the thought of her sister. She suspects the Lannisters killed her sister on accident, mistaking her for a servant or a stableboy, and then hid her body and pretended she disappeared so that Robb wouldn’t kill Jaime Lannister. Of course it’s possible that Arya escaped, but if that were true, why has no one else heard from her?

Still. Sansa can’t bear to tell her mother her suspicions. Better to let her mother’s anguished hope melt with time. 

Catelyn pastes a weary smile on her face. “It’s good to see you, Jeyne.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Jeyne murmurs, curtsying.

“Did you encounter any trouble?” Catelyn asks Theon.

He glances at Sansa. “Some.”

Catelyn’s grip tightens on Sansa’s arms. “But you’re all right?”

“We are. Mother, can we have a bath? And fresh clothes?”

“Of course. Of course,” Catelyn says at once. “Edmure, could you…?”

“I’ll see it done.”

“You must come to my chamber,” Catelyn urges Sansa. “We have so much to discuss.”

Sansa glows as her mother leads her to her chambers, elated to finally be reunited. As Catelyn’s maids draw a bath, Sansa tells her mother all that happened since their departure, from Lady’s death to her escape on the  _ Fair Wind _ . 

“The things you have endured...no child should have to endure such torment,” Catelyn murmurs, washing her daughter’s hair. “I should have insisted on keeping you at Winterfell.”

“We didn’t know,” Sansa reminds her softly. “It seemed like a wise decision at the time. And I only would have resented you if you’d tried to make me stay.”

Catelyn allows a small laugh. “You would have. You would have never forgiven me for keeping you apart from your beloved Joffrey.”

“He’s a monster,” Sansa says quietly. “He took me on the ramparts and made me look at Father’s head, and Septa Mordane’s. He told me he’d bring me Robb’s head, too, and then he had Ser Meryn hit me. And that was before Robb declared himself king; after that, he had me beaten in court, to punish me for Robb’s crimes.”

“I never liked that boy, and now I know why.” Catelyn wraps her arms around her daughter, kissing her cheek. “I’m so sorry, my darling girl.” 

“What about you?” Sansa asks. “What happened since I left home?”

“Oh...it’s a long tale.”

“I want to hear it.”

Catelyn is quiet for a moment as she rinses the oils from Sansa’s hair. “Someone tried to kill Bran while he slept.”

“ _ What _ ?” she whirls to face her mother. “What happened?”

“A man with a knife got into the castle and tried to kill him. Summer fought him off. The knife was too fine to belong to a common sellsword, and I began to suspect that the Lannisters were involved.”

“Why?”

Catelyn takes a deep breath. “I suspect that Bran saw something he wasn’t supposed to and he was pushed out of the window; when that didn’t kill him, they sent a catspaw to finish the job.”

Sansa absorbs this. “But...what would Bran have seen?”

Catelyn is quiet for a long moment. “I suspect...he saw the queen and her brother...making love.”

“Truly?”

“I found a golden hair in the tower from whence he fell. Bran has climbed walls of that height a thousand times and never fallen. I believe a Lannister pushed him in the hopes that Cersei and Jaime’s secret would die with him.”

On some level, it makes sense. There had been that rumor about Cersei and Jaime, but everyone at court had attributed it to Stannis trying to claim the throne. But if there was validity to that rumor, if Cersei and Jaime truly are lovers and Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen  _ are _ their children…

But something else occurs to her.

“I heard you captured Lord Tyrion.”

Catelyn sighs. “That was an unpleasant business. I came to King’s Landing, to tell your father--”

“You were  _ there _ ?”

“I was. Before all the trouble. I was intercepted by Petyr Baelish, who told me that he’d lost the knife used against Bran in a bet with Tyrion Lannister. While traveling back to Winterfell, I encountered Lord Tyrion on the road. I had him captured and taken to the Eyrie, where my sister Lysa sits. She had sent me a raven while the king was visiting, telling me that the Lannisters killed her husband. I felt certain that she would help me judge Tyrion’s crimes accordingly. Instead, I found her maddened with grief. She is...not the girl I once knew.” Grief passes across her face. “We put Tyrion on trial, but he would not confess to trying to kill Bran. Despite myself, I began to believe him. He won his freedom in a trial by combat. Not long after, I learned that your father was held in the black cells and that Robb was marching the bannermen south. I met him on the road, and together, we determined to march on King’s Landing and free you, your father, and Arya.” Her voice catches. “We were too slow.”

“Nothing could have stopped Joffrey,” Sansa whispers. “He was supposed to offer Father a place in the Night’s Watch, but instead he cut off Father’s head. He would have done it even if Robb’s army had been at the gates. It pleased him to do it, so he did it.”

“I’m glad you’re here and not there anymore.”

“So am I.” She hesitates. “Mother, Lord Baelish…”

Catelyn’s face closes off. “What affection I had for him is gone, Sansa. He helped to kill your father and he put Jeyne in that  _ horrible _ place...I should have killed him when I saw him at Renly’s camp.”

“You were at Renly’s camp?”

“I was; Robb sent me to treat with him, in the hopes that he would support our cause. He did not, but it makes no matter; Stannis had him killed, and I fled the camp with one of Renly’s Rainbow Guard. I only recently returned, as a matter of fact.”

Clean and scrubbed, Sansa gets out of the tub. Catelyn dries her off and then dresses her in one of her old gowns from when she’d last lived in Riverrun. She’d only been a few years older than Sansa then, and built about the same. The Tully blue gown fits well on her daughter, making her red hair stand out all the more. 

“It feels good to get out of that septa’s dress,” Sansa comments.

“It was wise of Theon to disguise you so; the Lannisters are looking for a red-headed girl, not two septas with their hair covered.”

_ Do you even have hair under there? _

_ Yes. Would you like to see it? _

Why had she been so unkind to Septa Mordane? The woman had died for Sansa, had her head cut off from her shoulders and mounted on a spike on the Red Keep’s ramparts. She’d always been kind to Sansa, had complimented her stitching and almost always took her side against Arya.

Her eyes prickle at the thought of her lost sister, and her septa.  _ I will be kinder from now on, _ she promises herself.  _ To everyone. And if Arya isn’t dead, if I ever see her again, I’ll be kind and patient and loving. _

A maid pokes her head in the door. “Pardon, my lady, but the king has returned from the Crag.”

Catelyn looks at Sansa, smiling. “Time to see your brother again.”

Sansa is unaccountably nervous. Will Robb be happy to see her? After all the trouble she caused, after coming back without Arya and their father, will he even want to see her?

“What is that face? Robb will be happy to see you,” Catelyn says, as if reading her daughter’s mind. 

“It’s my fault Father died,” Sansa says quietly. “All of this...it’s my fault. When Father told me we were leaving King’s Landing, I went to Cersei and told her. I only wanted to marry Joffrey and become the queen, I didn’t...I didn’t think they would hurt Father, or anyone. I thought it was just a simple misunderstanding, I didn’t realize…”

Catelyn wraps her arms around her daughter. “My darling girl, it isn’t your fault. Cersei would have found out eventually, and she would have punished your father all the same.”

“But--”

“Hush. No more of that. Dry your tears and come with me to meet your brother; he’ll be happy to see you. Don’t you realize what your coming back means? It means we can put an end to this war.”

Sansa pulls back, staring at her mother. “But...the Lannisters will never let Robb be King in the North…”

“No,” Catelyn agrees. “But they have lost every single battle in this war, and Tywin Lannister withdrew a large number of his troops to rescue King’s Landing when Stannis attacked.”

“Stannis attacked?” Sansa asks in surprise.

Catelyn nods. “He did. But he lost the battle. But...your father believed that he was the rightful king. If we throw in our lot with him and convince him to let the North rule itself, we can defeat the Lannisters and put an end to this war.”

“But what if he doesn’t agree?”

“Then we have a bargaining chip.” Catelyn smiles. “The Kingslayer.”

.

There’s a large collection of people in the great hall when Sansa and her mother come down. At their center is Robb, and when he sees his little sister, his eyes widen and his lips part. 

Sansa can’t help herself; she runs towards her brother. The crowd parts for her, and Robb catches her in his arms, lifting her off her feet. 

“Sansa,” he breathes. “You’re here.”

Tears come to her eyes for what feel like the hundredth time that day. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’m glad you’re here, little sister.” He sets her down, stepping back and beaming at her. He’s grown since she last saw him. He’s taller now, his face fuller and sporting a beard. Kinghood has made him grow up, she realizes. “Theon told me about your escape.”

So he already knows about Arya. That, at least, is some comfort. “It’s good to see you...my king.”

He grins, rolling his eyes. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“But you are my king...Your Grace.”

Catelyn comes forward, embracing Robb. “It’s good to see you again, my son. We have...much to discuss.”

“That we do.” Robb looks suddenly nervous as he glances around him. “There’s...something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?” Catelyn asks urgently. 

Robb holds out his hand...and a woman takes it. She’s beautiful, with brown skin, brown eyes, and dark brown hair. She dresses plainly, but there’s an air of nobility about her. “Mother, Sansa...this is Lady Jeyne Westerling. My...my wife.”

  
  



	11. THEON IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the moon of my life, Emily, who helped me talk through a bunch of this fic and where it's headed last night; I'm really excited to get things moving!

They sit in silence for a long moment, tankards half-empty and growing warm with every passing minute.

“What about the Frey girl?” Theon asks quietly.

“I never even met a Frey girl. And I love Jeyne.”

Theon sighs. “Robb, you made a  _ promise _ . Walder Frey’s going to be furious--”

“Walder Frey is a minor lord,” Robb says tersely. “He can’t do anything to me.” 

Theon purses his lips. 

After a long moment, Robb sighs, drooping in his seat. “I know. It was wrong of me. I only...I love Jeyne so much. I’ll never find a love like that again.”

“You could’ve kept her as a mistress,” Theon says quietly. 

“I couldn’t dishonor her like that.”

“And instead you dishonored your vow to Walder Frey.”

“You’re supposed to be my brother,” Robb says bitterly. “You’re supposed to defend me.”

“I’m not saying anything your men aren’t thinking,” Theon points out. “You’re my brother, Robb, more than my true brothers ever were, but...you have to know what people will say.” He puts his hand on Robb’s shoulder. “I say these things because you are my brother and because I would never lie to you. If I only flattered you and defended you without question, what kind of brother would I be?”

Robb’s shoulders slump. “You’re right, I...I was just so caught up at the time. Everything else seemed immaterial. I don’t even know if I’ll survive this war.”

“Of course you will. You’re stupid, but not that stupid.”

Robb gives him a small smile. “Thanks for that.”

“Robb. I support you in this. If Jeyne Westerling is your queen, then she’s my queen too. But if you want the full support of the Riverlands, then you’ll have to give Walder Frey something. Something big, since it looks like there won’t be a marriage to Arya, either.”

“Right.” Robb rubs his jaw. “You’re sure you never heard what happened to her? Not even a rumor?”

“Not even a rumor,” Theon confirms. “Sansa lived with the Lannisters for months and never heard a word, either.”

Robb sighs. “Do you think they killed her? The Lannisters?”

“You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“I do. I think they didn’t recognize her or a soldier got overzealous and killed her, and they hid her body and pretended she disappeared so that we wouldn’t kill Jaime Lannister in retaliation.”

“I’ve thought that, too,” Robb admits. “But...why would they kill Father, then?”

“ _ Joffrey _ killed your father. Cersei was going to let him go, send him to the Night’s Watch. But the little shit got a taste of power and wanted to use it.”

“Even if Joffrey is Robert’s trueborn son, I’d still rather put Stannis on the throne,” Robb grumbles. 

“We will,” Theon assures him. He takes a sip of his ale, thinking. “So...what will you do now?”

“Well...now that Sansa’s back with us, I suppose we’ll go back north,” Robb says slowly. “But the Lannisters will never leave us alone. Not as long as we want to be an independent kingdom.”

“Send an envoy to Stannis,” Theon urges. “Tell him that if he recognizes the North as an independent kingdom, you’ll fight with him to put him on the throne.”

“What if he refuses?”

“Then you don’t offer your support and he can battle it out with the Lannisters alone. You can sue for peace and offer Jaime Lannister in exchange for the North’s sovereignty.”

Robb considers this. “What if they don’t accept it?”

“Take Jaime Lannister’s sword hand and send it to them. That should speed up negotiations.”

Robb drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I think you may be right.”

“I know I am.” 

Robb smiles. “I’m glad you’re back, Greyjoy.” His smile falters. “But first, there’s...there’s something you ought to know.”

“What is it?” he asks, misliking Robb’s tone.

Robb takes a deep breath. “Your father...Balon Greyjoy...has declared himself King of the Iron Islands.”

Theon can feel his stomach drop. His father.  _ His father _ .

He hasn’t seen or spoken to his father in almost ten years. The last he saw of him was before Lord Stark took him away forever. He’d been Lord Stark’s ward so that Balon Greyjoy would know if he ever started another rebellion, he’d be killing his last remaining son.

And he’d rebelled anyway. 

_ He doesn’t care if they kill me _ , he realizes.  _ He gave me up a long time ago. _

“Perhaps,” Robb says haltingly, “he thought that...with King Robert and my father dead, you wouldn’t...you would be safe…”

“No,” Theon says coldly. “That’s not what he thought.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, staring into the depths of their tankards.

“I won’t kill you, you know,” Robb offers.

“I know.”

“But your father…”

“I know.”

“Your sister...she’s taken Deepwood Motte.”

Theon looks at him in surprise. “Asha?”

Robb nods. “We think their plan is to invade the North, but...they don’t have the army for it.” He sighs. “Of course, we can’t spare the men to fight them off while we’re busy fighting the Lannisters.”

“Send a small detachment to Deepwood Motte. Northmen who know the terrain better than any ironborn.” Theon has an idea. “I’ll lead them.”

“You?” Robb asks incredulously. 

“Why not? My father would rather kill his only remaining son and make his daughter his prize warrior, so be it. He’ll have to face the consequences.”

“You’re as stubborn as any Iron Islander, I’ll give you that.” Robb considers. “All right. You go north with a hundred men. Take my sister and the Poole girl with you; Sansa will want to go home. They both will, I imagine.”

“And your mother?”

He shakes his head. “She wants to be here, with her father. And truth be told, I want her guidance moving forward.”

There aren’t many men who’d admit to wanting their mother’s counsel, and Theon has to admire him for that. But he’s right; Lady Catelyn is wise, and shrewd besides. She’s a good advisor to have at a time like this. A cool head to Robb’s hot one.

Robb touches his shoulder. “Thank you, Theon. For everything I’ve asked of you and...everything I will ask of you.”

“I’d do it all again if you asked.”

Robb smiles.

Theon grins. “Now go upstairs to that bride of yours.”

Robb’s smile widens. He leaves Theon with half a tankard of ale and a whole mess of thoughts brewing. 


	12. JEYNE V

Jeyne stares at the canopy above her bed. She’s been staring at it for hours and has a feeling she’ll stare at it for hours yet.

She’d thought that being back amongst her countrymen, being back around the Starks, would make her feel better. She thought she’d sleep comfortably in a featherbed and feel clean after a proper bath and feel like her old self after putting on a lady’s gown. 

But she’d thought wrong. Being around her countrymen and the Starks has only filled her with shame and loneliness. Shame at being a whore, loneliness because they are all so happy to see each other again, and Jeyne...Jeyne has no one.

Her featherbed is soft, but it offers no respite. Her baths are clean and fragrant, but they will never mask the smell of blood and cum she feels is always on her. The lady’s gown she wears feels heavy and stiff after so much time spent in the light, gauzy fabric of her whore’s gown. 

_ It’s because I am a whore, no matter what anyone says. They know it. I know they know it. They look at me and know that I’m a whore, and no amount of dresses or featherbeds or baths can wash away the stink of shame.  _

She rolls onto her side, screwing her eyes shut. She can’t tell which is worse; everyone ignoring her or giving her those pitying looks. She’d seen the way Lady Catelyn’s face had fallen when she realized Jeyne was not Arya. She’d seen, too, the way Lady Catelyn’s eyes had been full of pity when she looked at Jeyne at dinner. 

That was when Lady Catelyn  _ was _ paying attention to her, though. The dowager had had eyes for little else than Sansa, and in return, Sansa had had eyes only for her mother. The three Starks, sitting together at the high table, looked well together. The king, his lady mother, and his princess sister. 

_ And I am just a whore. _

She throws back the coverlet and gets to her feet. The flagstones are cold beneath her bare feet, but she doesn’t mind; if anything, she likes the feeling. She’s a Northerner, born and raised, and it’s been a long time since she felt the cold. King’s Landing had never been cold, had only been hot and humid and reeking of bodies. Her room in Riverrun is cool and quiet and clean. 

She wanders out of her room and down the corridor. She’s close to the maester’s tower; perhaps she can find a book to read, or a draught to make her sleep. Something, anything other than lying in her too-soft bed and staring at a canopy embroidered by girls like her.

It would be better if Ros was here. Ros would make her feel less alone. Even though Ros has been whoring and liking it far longer than Jeyne has, she wouldn’t feel out of place here. She would smile and make friends with everyone, and before long Jeyne wouldn’t feel lonely at all. 

_ I should try to be like Ros _ .  _ Everyone would like me and no one would feel sorry for me. Maybe I would even start to like myself. _

A door opens, and out spills a giggling serving maid, hastily lacing up her clothes. In the doorway, Jeyne catches sight of a grinning face.

Theon.

A deep blush rises in her cheeks, in no small part because he’s lacking a shirt, and before she can duck away, he comes to the door, leaning against the frame. “What are you doing creeping around the corridors so late?”

“I’m not  _ creeping _ ,” she insists, still blushing. “I was just walking.”

“Alone at night with only a nightdress?”

Her blush deepens. She hadn’t thought to run into anyone when she got out of bed, but now her state of undress makes shame well within her. 

“I’m only teasing.” He pushes his door open wider. “Come in. Have a drop of wine with me.”

“It wouldn’t be proper,” she says at once.

Theon laughs. “After everything we’ve been through, sitting by the fire and drinking wine isn’t proper?”

She blushes again. Being back inside a castle has returned her former courtesies to her, but she doesn’t know how to reconcile those with her experiences. Ladies do not sit in their nightgowns with half-dressed men alone in their chambers, but isn’t Theon an exception? He saved her. Surely the rules are different?

“Alright. But if anyone finds out--”

“They won’t. They’re all asleep, as you should be.”

She steps inside, trying to ignore his lack of a shirt. He dutifully tugs one over his head and brings a bottle and two earthen cups to the table by the fire. She perches delicately on the edge of her seat, accepting the cup of wine and taking mincing sips. Theon has less grace; he takes deep, hearty swallows.

“So why are you wandering around so late?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You slept on a ship and in rundown inns, but in a castle you can’t sleep?”

“I don’t feel right here,” she confesses softly. “I feel...out of place.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Is it...because…?”

She nods. 

He sets down his cup. “Jeyne...what happened in King’s Landing...no one has to know about it.”

“Lady Catelyn knows. Robb knows. Everyone probably knows.”

“That’s not true.”

She doesn’t say anything. He’s probably right. Probably no one knows, or even cares what the Poole girl was doing in the capital while Sansa was Joffrey’s prisoner. 

“But,” she says softly, “what if they find out?”

“They won’t.”

“But what if they  _ do _ ?”

“Anyone with the sense to piss will know it wasn’t your choice,” he says vehemently. “Don’t worry about them, alright? They don’t matter.”

_ Ros would say the same thing, I bet _ . 

“But--”

“Hush. No one’s going to find out. I’m not a gossiping fishwife and neither is Sansa.”

And, well, he has her there. Sansa may have told her mother, but Lady Catelyn isn’t like to tell anyone. She wouldn’t want anyone to know that her daughter consorts with a child whore. 

Jeyne takes a deep, steadying breath. “You’re right. You’re right.”

“You’ll feel better when we’re home,” Theon assures her. “When we’re back in Winterfell.”

“When? When will we go back?” She’s been wondering that all day. Will they stay with Robb and go back when the war is won? 

“Soon. I’m to take you and Sansa back.”

Jeyne’s heart leaps. “You are?”

He nods, drinking his wine. “Ironborn have taken Deepwood Motte; I’m going to take you and Sansa home and then take a hundred men to Deepwood Motte to get rid of them.”

This surprises Jeyne. “But...aren’t they your father’s men?”

Theon’s jaw hardens. “Balon Greyjoy is not my father. Not anymore. He declared himself King of the Iron Isles. Last time he did that, he was told in no uncertain terms that if he did it again, it would be my life on the line. He did it anyway. If Robb were less forgiving, he might have me killed.”

“Robb would never have you killed,” she says quickly.

He shakes his head. “I know that. But my father doesn’t. He was willing to let the Starks kill me just so he could call himself king of a miserable spit of land.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. 

He jerks his shoulders. “‘S fine.”

“It isn’t, though. He’s your  _ father _ .”

“Not anymore. The Starks are the family I choose. Balon Greyjoy can drown, for all I care.”

Theon used to be so proud of his home. He’d bragged about being a Greyjoy, had had armor made with a kraken on the breastplate. And now…

And now. 

Jeyne can’t imagine which is worse: losing your father, or finding out your father doesn’t care if he loses you.  _ Either way, you don’t have a father anymore, not really _ . Not for the first time, her heart aches as she remembers her own father. He’d been kind; always tired-looking, but kind. Patient. He’d loved Jeyne so much.

_ And I will never see him again _ .

She swallows around the knot in her throat. “So...when do we leave?”

“I don’t know yet. Soon.” He gives her a small smile. “Ready to go back home, little Poole?”

“Yes.” She hesitates. “It...will be different.”

“Different, aye, but home just the same.”

_ Home _ . Winterfell. The place where she was born and raised. The place where she played with Sansa and learned to be a proper little lady. Where she ate lemoncakes when lemons were sent North and dreamed of marrying a handsome knight. 

She offers Theon a tentative smile. “It will be good to be home again.”

He returns her smile. “Soon enough, little Poole. Soon enough.”

But for Jeyne, going home can’t be soon enough.

  
  



	13. SANSA IV

Sansa sits beside her mother in the great hall. Next to Lady Catelyn is Robb, and beside him is his new queen.

Jeyne Westerling.

She likes Jeyne Westerling, what little she’s seen of her and talked to her. She’s kind, and serious, but she has a biting wit when provoked. She’s the older sister Sansa always wanted...and the daughter Catelyn had hoped never to have.

Apparently, Robb was supposed to marry one of Walder Frey’s daughters. It had been an agreement to grant Robb and his army passage across the Twins. They’d promised Arya to one of his sons, too, and made one of the boys Robb’s squire and sent two more boys to Winterfell to foster them. 

Well, they’ll all be going home now, and there will be no Stark marriages for any of Walder Frey’s children.

_ Not unless Robb means to wed me in Arya’s place _ . 

Theon pounds the table for silence, and slowly, the hall’s chatter whispers out into expectant quiet. 

“Thanks to Theon Greyjoy, my sister has been returned to us.”

Cheers go up in the hall, and though Theon pounds the table for silence again, he wears a triumphant sort of grin. Sansa is in awe of the reaction, and she shares a smile with her mother.

Robb waits for the cheers to subside before he speaks again.

“We marched south to free my father and sisters. My father is dead, my sister Arya is missing, and my sister Sansa is free from the Lannisters. We have no further reason to march on King’s Landing. But we know that they’ll never leave us alone, not while we demand our sovereignty.”

A few murmurs of assent roll through the hall.

“My father died because he knew the truth: that Joffrey Lannister was born of incest, and none of Cersei’s children are Robert Baratheon’s heirs. That distinction falls to his brother, Stannis.” 

“Stannis killed his own brother!” someone shouts.

“Joffrey killed my father!” Robb bellows back. “And Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin, all the Lannisters will never let us be! But Stannis might.”

The room goes deathly quiet.

“I want to send an envoy to Stannis and propose that we combine our forces and destroy the Lannisters, in exchange for Stannis recognizing the North’s sovereignty. If he agrees, we’ll help him take the Iron Throne as my father intended.”

“What if he doesn’t agree?” someone asks.

Robb takes a deep breath. “Then we withdraw north and let him handle the Lannisters on his own.”

“Won’t they follow us north?”

“They will,” Robb agrees. “Unless we offer them something they want: the Kingslayer.” When the men start to murmur, Robb raises his voice. “Tywin Lannister would do anything to get his son back, and we all know that he’s the one pulling his grandson’s strings. If we can reason with Tywin, we can put an end to this war.”

“Then why ally with Stannis?”

“Because he’s a man of his word. And...because it’s what my father would have wanted.” Robb leans forward. “We can make peace with the Lannisters, but only for so long. They’re devious, and any peace we make with them will be temporary. If Stannis is king, he will honor his word.”

In that moment, Sansa admires her brother so much. She’s always admired him, but now her heart beats and her smile widens with it. Their father would be so proud if he could see Robb now. 

_ Would he be proud of me, too? _

“Do you think Stannis will accept Robb’s terms?” Sansa asks her mother.

“I hope so, because I will be presenting them.”

Her eyes widen. “ _ You’re _ going?”

“Stannis respected your father, and your father respected him. If anyone is going to treat with him, it should be me.”

“What if he says no?”

“You heard your brother; then we’ll offer Jaime Lannister to Tywin in exchange for an end to the war.”

Sansa doesn’t believe the Lannisters will ever let them alone; even if they do agree to end the war, they’ll come for all of the Starks sooner or later. An alliance with Stannis is their only hope of lasting peace.

“Will you go alone?”

“I will bring Brienne.”

Brienne of Tarth is a woman warrior that has sworn an oath of fealty to Catelyn. The woman, taller and stronger than most of the men in Robb’s army, was a member of Renly’s Rainbow Guard until his untimely death. She and Catelyn had escaped together, and the act earned Catelyn Brienne’s unwavering devotion. 

Sansa finds herself in awe of Brienne. So many knights are nothing like the ones in the songs, but Brienne is. She’s brave and gentle and strong, and if she were a man, Sansa might take a fancy to her. 

“Can I go with you?” she asks now, loath to be parted from her mother.

Catelyn sighs. “I wish you could, but Robb and I have made other plans for you.”

Sansa’s heart pounds. “Marriage?”

Catelyn looks surprised. “Marriage? Gods, no!”

Sansa sighs in relief.

“I will find a suitable match for you someday,” Catelyn amends. “But for now, we want you safe at home. Theon is going north with a hundred men to drive the ironborn out of Deepwood Motte. On the way, he is going to escort you and Jeyne home.”

Sansa’s heart leaps. “Home? To Winterfell?”

Catelyn smiles. “Yes. Home to Winterfell.”

_ Home to Winterfell _ . She’s been longing to return home ever since Joffrey cut off her father’s head, but with each passing day, it had seemed less and less like a possibility. But now...now, it’s going to happen. She’ll be back in her bed, in her room, with Bran and Rickon. And Jeyne. Jeyne, who’s been through so much. She’ll be glad to be home, too.

Just as Sansa and her mother are leaving the hall, Maester Vyman approaches them, a raven’s scroll in hand. 

“From Winterfell, my lady.”

“Winterfell?” Catelyn repeats, taking the scroll. She breaks the wax seal and unfurls the scroll. Her face seems to grow longer as she reads it, the color draining from her cheeks.

“Mother?”

Catelyn looks up at her daughter. “It seems...Bran is gone.”

“Gone?” Sansa’s heart pounds. “What do you mean?”

“He left in the night with Howland Reed’s children and Hodor. He left a note saying not to worry and that he’s in good hands.”

“But  _ why _ ?” Sansa wants to know. “Why did he leave?”

Catelyn shakes her head. “I don’t know, sweetling. It doesn’t say.”

Sansa watches her mother read the scroll again. “Mother? What does this mean?”

Catelyn takes a deep breath. “It means...that you must make all haste for Winterfell. We cannot leave Rickon there alone.”

Rickon. Her poor little brother. Everyone has left him now; what must he think?

Catelyn turns to Maester Vyman. “Write to Maester Luwin and inform him that my daughter is headed home.”

The maester bows. “As you say, my lady.” He shuffles off to write his missive.

Catelyn turns to her daughter. “Do you remember what your father used to say? ‘When the snows fall and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies--’”

“But the pack survives,” Sansa finishes, hearing her father’s voice as clear as a bell.

Catelyn nods. “I will stay with Robb, and you...you must go to Rickon. Take care of him, Sansa. With Bran gone…” Her face turns grim. “He is Robb’s heir.”


	14. THEON V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I KNOW these chapters have been super short lately, and admittedly some of them are kind of filler, BUT I promise everything in them is relevant (or will be soon). Thanks for your patience!!

On a grey morning chilled with rain, Theon leads Sansa, Jeyne, and one hundred men north. On the same morning, Lady Catelyn, Brienne, and a small retinue of men ride east for Dragonstone to offer terms to Stannis Baratheon. Theon hopes that he and Lady Catelyn both return with good news for Robb.

Truth be told, he finds the mission ahead of him far more daunting than sneaking into King’s Landing and saving Sansa. That had promised to be an adventure, and it had earned him Robb’s gratitude. But riding to Deepwood Motte to treat with his sister and hundreds of men looking on…

He hasn’t seen Asha since he was eight years old. He still remembers the hard look on her face when he’d been taken away, the way her arms folded over her chest. Ironborn do not weep, and even as a ten-year-old girl, Asha had not shed any tears. 

What is she like now, he wonders?  _ The son my father always wanted, no doubt. _ Bile rises in his throat as he thinks about his father choosing his girl-child over his own son. What had made Balon give up on Theon? When had Theon died in his father’s eyes? Had it been that day he sailed to Winterfell? Or had it been the last few months, when Balon realized his son was a man grown and still a prisoner of the Starks?

_ I’m not a prisoner, _ Theon tells himself.  _ Lord Stark treated me as his own son. Robb calls me his brother. I’m not a prisoner. _

_...am I? _

.

The journey north is a slow one. It takes them three weeks to get from Riverrun to Winterfell; it might take less time if they rode harder, but Sansa and Jeyne are unused to hard riding. Sansa’s never liked it and has barely done more than ride around the paddock, and Jeyne has even less experience. Which isn’t to say that they’re not trying valiantly, because they are; though both girls limp to their tents at the end of the day, wincing with saddle sores, no word of complaint passes from their lips. 

Theon imagines they’re just eager to get back to Winterfell. Back to their own beds, surrounded by the people they’ve known their whole lives, behind the safety of walls that have guarded the Starks for hundreds of years. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t long for the same thing. 

They stay at the great houses along the way when they can, for which everyone is grateful. The northern ladies and their noble children are happy to put them up for a night, seeing to the comfort of their princess. Many of them, no doubt, want her to look fondly upon her time at their homes so that she’ll be inclined to marry their son or nephew. The north hasn’t had a princess since Torrhen Stark’s daughter, who was stripped of her title and forced to marry an Arryn of the Vale after her father bent the knee to Aegon I. She was killed by her husband’s brother, far away from her home and the crypts of Winterfell where she belonged.

Sansa herself will have to marry soon. She’s bled, which Theon only knows because he spent several days on the road with her and Jeyne. There are plenty of northern lords who will want her hand and a place of distinction at Robb Stark’s side, but Lady Catelyn will probably have her eye on a lord of the Vale or the Riverlands, or perhaps even of the Stormlands should she wish to cement the alliance with Stannis Baratheon. Theon suspects that if Stannis does accept their terms, he’ll press for a marriage between his daughter and Bran; that way, should Robb die without a son, Bran will be King in the North and Shireen his queen, and their child will inherit both kingdoms. 

Now, whether Robb agrees to such a match…

After all, wouldn’t it just be putting them back where they began? Uniting the North to the other Seven Kingdoms? The person who sits on the Iron Throne ruling the North?

He shakes his head. Stannis might not even want Bran for his daughter, crippled as the boy is. He may consider it an insult. He may want one of his own bannermen for her, or a lord from one of the other realms to make allies. 

Gods, when did he start thinking about marriages and political matches so much? 

_ Probably when your best friend became a king. _

It’s still on his mind when their party crosses the river and comes in sight of Cerwyn. They could ride on to Winterfell--it’s only a half day’s ride, and he’s sure the girls could push on into the night. But some part of him suspects that Lady Cerwyn will be offended if they pass by, especially now that her son is the lord of the manor and only two years older than Sansa. It would be a good match, and might soothe those who were rankled by Robb’s marriage to a Lannister bannerman’s daughter. It would be good for Sansa, too, to marry someone close to her own age. And not only that, but for her to live a half day’s ride from Winterfell. She would be able to come and go as she pleased.

_ She wouldn’t be a prisoner forced to marry her gaoler. _

Just as he predicted, Lady Cerwyn is thrilled to have Sansa Stark staying under her roof. She feasts Sansa, Theon, Jeyne, and all hundred Stark men in her hall, and places Sansa strategically close to her son, Cley.

“You’ll be glad to go home, won’t you, Lady Sansa?” Lady Cerwyn asks over the mutton she’s had prepared for them. 

“Very,” Sansa says with a smile. “I’ve missed Winterfell.”

“Jonelle was sick when she left home.” The matron nods towards her daughter. The eldest child of Lord and Lady Cerwyn had been brought alongside her father on Robb’s campaign under the guise of “cooking” for him, but Theon had always suspected Lord Cerwyn meant to get her in Robb’s bed. Perhaps she was sick for more than just home. “I can only imagine how you must feel, my lady.”

“You are very kind, Lady Cerwyn. I was so sorry to hear about your husband.”

“Ah, yes.” Lady Cerwyn’s smile becomes a little more tired, a little more forced. “They were going to release him, you know. But he died in Harrenhal.”

Sansa covers the other woman’s hand with her own. “My brother appreciated your husband’s loyalty; his sacrifice has not been forgotten. We are glad to count House Cerwyn among our friends. If there is anything we can do to ease your pain, Winterfell is only half a day’s ride away.”

Lady Cerwyn’s smile becomes wet as she regards her princess. 

Theon admires Sansa’s diplomacy. She would have made Joffrey a good queen, if he’d had the sense to treat her well. He imagines she’ll step up as the Lady of Winterfell in her mother and Bran’s absence, running the household and carrying out Robb’s wishes. Perhaps she’ll even be able to lure Rickon into donning the mantle of responsibility. After all, he’s a prince now too; in time, he’ll have to lead men of his own, will probably be given land and people to work it, will have to make decisions for the good of those who depend upon him. Yes, Sansa’s presence will be good for him. It will be good for everyone at Winterfell.

“Have you had much news on the road?” Cley Cerwyn asks, trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

“Not since we spent the night in Moat Cailin,” Theon admits. 

“Did you hear about Lady Hornwood?” Jonelle asks, perking up.

“Jonelle!” Lady Cerwyn hisses.

Theon glances between the two women. “What about Lady Hornwood?”

“It’s not appropriate for dinner,” Lady Cerwyn tries to say, but Jonelle is determined to say her piece.

“Roose Bolton’s bastard carried her off and forced her to marry him so that he’d have the Hornwood lands. Then he left her in a tower to starve; she chewed off her own fingers before she died.”

“Jonelle!”

“What, Mother?” the younger woman asks defiantly. “It’s true. And they ought to know, after all.”

Lady Cerwyn purses her lips.

“So...he’s Lord of Hornwood now?” Sansa asks, wide-eyed.

“He is, my lady,” Cley says in a gentle tone. “Some of the Hornwood men tried to fight back, but...they were overpowered by the Bolton forces.”

“Lord Bolton cannot condone this!” Sansa sounds outraged. “Does my brother know?”

“I am sure King Robb has heard,” Lady Cerwyn says, adopting her son’s gentle tone. “But he cannot afford to lose all ten thousand of Roose Bolton’s men.”

No, he can’t. Theon is sure that Robb and Lady Catelyn are furious, but Lady Cerwyn is right; Robb can’t afford to lose the Bolton forces because of one bastard. For all they know, Lord Bolton may very well be planning to take his son’s ill behavior in hand and see to it that amends are made to the Hornwoods. But for now, there is a war to win.

Sansa does not seem to understand this. “My father would see justice done even if it meant losing men,” she declares stubbornly. 

“The witnesses to the wedding claim it was binding.” Lady Cerwyn shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Of course, they were all Bolton men, but...she may have given her consent.”

“If she felt she had no other choice,” Sansa retorts. “Which is not consent at all.”

“Perhaps she wanted to protect her people.” Lady Cerwyn’s eyes grow distant. “We lords and ladies do terrible things to protect those around us.”

Theon knows that she’s thinking of her husband, who rotted away in a cell in Harrenhal. How many lords have done terrible things to protect those around them in this war? With a lurch, he thinks of the task that lies ahead of him. Will he have to do terrible things to one family in order to protect the other?

Sansa opens her mouth to argue, so Theon leans forward and suggests, “More mulled wine, Lady Sansa?”

She regards him suspiciously. 

“I would like some,” Jeyne pipes up, holding out her cup for more. “You can’t imagine how wonderful mulled wine tastes after sleeping in tents for nearly a month, Lady Cerwyn. I shall look forward to sleeping in a real bed tonight.”

“So will I,” Theon agrees. “I’m glad we stopped for the night instead of pushing on to Winterfell.”

“I am pleased we can offer my princess a warm meal and a comfortable place to sleep,” Lady Cerwyn says, truly looking pleased. 

The argument leaves Sansa, replaced with the courtesy her mother and Septa Mordane drilled into her from a young age. “We are most grateful, Lady Cerwyn, and I know my brother will be grateful that you have been so generous to his sister.”

This appears to be exactly what Lady Cerwyn was hoping to hear, as she smiles and practically wriggles with delight. She sees to it that they are all full of mutton and mulled wine before they drift off to bed. Back in the North and only a few hours’ ride from home, Theon kicks off his shoes and falls into bed without taking off his clothes. It is the best he’s slept since leaving Winterfell.


	15. ARYA I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you read that right--a new POV character is being brought into the fold!
> 
> I'm playing fast and loose with the timeline here (but to be fair, GRRM and D&D *also* play fast and loose with their canon timelines, so bite me); we are roughly in the latter half of ASoS/Season 3.

Before her is a sea of off-white tents, interspersed with fluttering banners. She sees direwolves, white suns, leaping fish, flayed men, battleaxes, bears, chains, and a hundred others Maester Luwin would scold her for forgetting. All of them mean the same thing to her, though.

_ Robb is here. _

Arya Stark watches with bated breath as Robb’s camp becomes closer, and in so doing, more real to her. She is here. She’s going to see her mother and Robb. 

“What business do you have?” a pimple-faced sentry asks, clearly unmanned at the sight of the Hound.

“Tell your king I have his sister, Arya Stark.” 

The sentry pales. “But...Arya Stark is dead…”

“I am not!” Arya snaps. “I’m alive, and if you take me to my brother, he’ll say it’s me!”

The sentry licks his lips. “You don’t...look like a lady.”

“And you don’t look like much of a soldier,” the Hound growls. “I’ve seen cockless men with more balls than you.”

The sentry trembles. “I--”

“What’s the meaning of this, then?” A grizzled man in black armor approaches them. He somehow looks both irritated and jovial. 

“This girl claims to be Arya Stark,” the sentry explains. 

The man steps closer, looking hard at Arya’s face. She raises her chin defiantly, never taking her eyes from his. 

“You have the Stark look,” the man says at last. “But tell me,  _ Arya Stark _ , where have you been all this long while?”

“With the Brotherhood Without Banners,” she says without hesitation. 

“What were you doing with  _ them _ ?”

“They were going to take me here, but it took too long, and then the Hound found me, and he wants to ransom me back to my mother and Robb.” Arya squirms impatiently. “Can’t I see them?”

The man gives a gruff chortle. “As it happens, you’re in luck; my niece only just arrived back from Dragonstone.”

“Who’s your niece?” Arya asks, still impatient.

“Why, it’s your mother. I’m her uncle, Brynden Tully.”

Arya’s heart leaps. “You’re the Blackfish!” she cries.

He chortles again. “Aye, so you know me.”

“My mother always told me stories about you! She promised someday we’d come to Riverrun and meet you, and my grandfather and Uncle Edmure.”

“The time for meeting your grandfather has passed, I’m afraid,” the Blackfish says gently. “He’s gone out to the river like his fathers before him.”

“Oh.” Arya doesn’t know quite how to feel about that. She’s sad she didn’t get to meet him, and she’s sad he died, of course, but she never knew the man. 

“Never mind. Let’s go and find your mother.”

The Hound’s grip tightens on the reins. “Now hold on--”

“Oh, don’t you fret, King Robb will pay you handsomely for returning his sister,” the Blackfish says with a dismissive wave of the hand.

The Hound grumbles but follows the older man through the camp. Arya can barely contain herself, her head whipping back and forth as she takes in everything around her. How strange it is to finally see so many Stark colors when for so long she had only seen Lannisters colors.

A groom takes the Hound’s horse; Arya slides off the beast and follows her great-uncle inside the castle of Riverrun. Her breath comes hard, her legs trembling as each step brings her closer and closer to her mother.

_ What if she doesn’t recognize me? What if she’s disappointed I am so dirty and ugly? What if she doesn’t want me anymore? _

So lost in her thoughts is she that she bumps right into the Blackfish’s back when he comes to a halt. 

“Pardon the intrusion, Your Graces, niece, nephew, my lords,” the Blackfish rumbles. “Someone we thought lost has been found.”

Carefully, Arya peers out from behind her great-uncle. There are a few people sitting at a long table, but the only ones for whom Arya has eyes are her mother and Robb. Catelyn rises slowly, her face pale. Robb rises too, his mouth open and eyes wide.

“Mother,” Arya says in a small, cracked sort of voice.

And then Catelyn is rushing towards her and Arya is running to meet her, throwing her arms around her mother’s waist and burying her face in the hollow of her neck. Catelyn shakes with great sobs as she squeezes her daughter.

“We feared you were dead,” Catelyn manages, pulling back to look at her daughter.

Arya is aware of her dirty face and her tangled hair. “Not dead. Just lost.”

“Not anymore,” her mother murmurs. 

Slowly, the other lords file out of the room, leaving Arya with her mother, Robb, a man and a woman Arya doesn’t know, the Blackfish, and the Hound.

“Why are you here?” Robb asks, and when Arya looks up, she sees that her brother is giving the Hound a hard look.

“I brought her back to you,” the Hound spits. 

“Why would a Lannister knight bring a little girl to her traitor brother?”

“I don’t serve the Lannisters anymore,” the Hound grumbles. “Not since Blackwater.”

“You expect me to believe you’re taking up with the Northern cause?” Robb challenges.

The Hound snorts. “What do you take me for? The only ‘cause’ I’m taking up is my own. I only brought you the little girl because I knew you’d pay for her.”

Robb’s jaw tightens, but Catelyn says, “We will of course reward you for returning my daughter to us. You have my thanks, ser.”

He grunts in response. 

“Uncle?” Catelyn turns to the Blackfish. “Will you see that Ser Sandor is fed and watered and paid for his service?”

“Aye.” The Blackfish claps him on the back. “This way.”

Arya watches him go, and then, torn, breaks free of her mother’s arms. “Wait!”

He turns to look back at her, eyebrows raised.

She wrestles with herself for a moment. “I...I’m taking you off my list.”

The Hound looks at her...and smiles. 

.

Over a roast chicken and a hearty broth, Arya tells her family all that had happened since she left Winterfell. She tells them about the inn at the crossroads, how she had hit Joffrey and Nymeria bit him, so she sent Nymeria away and they killed Lady in her place. She tells them how Ned was going to take them home, how the next day men of the kingsguard came after her so she ran and hid. She doesn’t tell them about Syrio Forel, or Needle, or the boy she killed--she feels, somehow, that they might not approve.

She tells them how she saw her father at the Great Sept of Baelor, how Yoren took her and cut her hair and named her Arry the orphan. She tells them about the goldcloaks finding them on the kingsroad, how they were taken to Harrenhal, how she escaped only to be picked up by the Brotherhood Without Banners, how they were going to return her but got distracted by a battle. She finishes by telling them that the Hound captured her and brought her here, and by the time she finishes her story, her roast chicken is nearly gone.

“You’ve had quite the adventure,” Catelyn remarks. “But I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“If only you’d gotten here sooner,” her uncle, Edmure, says. “You could have gone home with Sansa.”

“Sansa?” Arya wipes her mouth. “She was here?”

“Theon went to King’s Landing to sneak out the both of you,” Robb says with a hint of pride. “He found Sansa and Jeyne Poole. He took them north to Winterfell only a fortnight ago.”

_ Winterfell _ . Arya aches for it. She aches, too, with the knowledge that she missed her sister. She so wanted to see her again, to apologize for her bad behavior and forgive Sansa for hers. 

“We’ll go back someday,” Catelyn says encouragingly. “Stannis Baratheon has agreed to recognize Robb as the King in the North if we help him defeat the Lannisters and put him on the Iron Throne. As soon as it’s safe and we can spare the men, we’ll send you home.”

But Arya finds the idea of war far more interesting than going home. True, she wants to see Winterfell, and Sansa and her brothers, but to be at Robb’s side when he defeats the Lannisters…

“Are you all finished? You must want a bath,” Catelyn continues. “And for gods’ sakes, a change of clothes.”

Truthfully, Arya has grown to hate the rags she’s been wearing since she first escaped the Red Keep; she’s sure her mother will want to burn them, and Arya isn’t about to stop her.

Chambermaids prepare a hot bath, which promptly turns brown at the amount of filth caked on Arya. She sits with uncharacteristic patience as her mother scrubs her skin raw and works soap and oils into her hair. By the time she gets out of the bath, it’s nearly black; in contrast, her skin is pink. Her mother puts her in one of her old gowns, a relic from her childhood, and combs out her short hair. 

“There. Much better,” Catelyn says approvingly. 

It is; even though the dress does not quite fit her and her hair looks unnatural at so short a length, she is clean and recognizably a girl again. She’ll look better when the maids can alter a dress to better fit her, and when her hair grows out. 

As if reading her thoughts, Catelyn runs her hair through her daughter’s short locks. “It was wise of Yoren to disguise you as a boy. No one would have thought to look for a little orphan boy heading to the Wall.”

“How did Theon get Sansa out of King’s Landing?” Arya asks, curious. 

“She and Jeyne dressed as septas and boarded a ship for Saltpans.”

“But how did she get out of the Red Keep?”

Catelyn hesitates. “There was a mob. She was out of the Keep, at the docks to see off Princess Myrcella, and when no one was looking, she made a run for it. They wouldn’t have been able to look for her until the riot was over, by which time she was already halfway to Saltpans. If they haven’t given her up for dead by now, they can only keep searching for a girl with red hair. They wouldn’t think to look for two septas.”

She has to admit: it’s a clever plan. And even if the Lannisters did figure it out, there’s nothing they can do; Sansa is headed back to Winterfell right this very moment. 

“You’ll see her again soon,” Catelyn says, reading her thoughts again. “I know she’ll be happy to know you’re alive.”

“She was angry with me last time I saw her,” Arya murmurs. “We hadn’t gotten along since they killed Lady.”

“I am sure Sansa does not still hold a grudge over that,” Catelyn says firmly. “She is your sister and she loves you, and she will be so happy to see you again.”

Arya does not say anything to that. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Catelyn murmurs, wrapping her arms around her youngest daughter. “When Theon returned without you…”

“I’m alright, Mother.” She turns in her mother’s arms, returning the embrace. “I’m here.”


	16. SANSA V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Biggest of shout-outs, as always, to the moon of my life, without whom I would not be able to write this fic.

When the great castle comes into view, Sansa feels her breath catch in her throat. 

Winterfell.

She nearly spurs her horse into a gallop, just to get there all the sooner. But it’s still a long trek to the castle, and besides, she’s the Lady of Winterfell in the absence of her mother and Bran; she must comport herself with dignity. Instead, she trots beside Theon and Jeyne, at the head of the neat column of Stark men. 

Cheers rise up from the Winter Town as they draw closer, and Sansa can’t help but beam at the calls shouted her way.

“Lady Sansa!”

“Princess Sansa!”

When she finally trots through the gate and into the courtyard, her breath temporarily leaves her lungs. Everything looks exactly as she remembers, right down to Mikken and Ser Rodrik throwing up their hands in greeting. She beams at them before her eyes flit around, searching for Rickon.

He comes tumbling out of the castle, his red curls tumbling down around his face and a great black beast loping after him. Theon dismounts swiftly, reaching up to pluck Sansa from her saddle. No sooner have her feet touched the ground than they threaten to knock her down, so powerful is the force with which Rickon throws his body around hers.

“Sansa!” he shouts. 

“Hello,” she laughs, wrapping her arms around him and steadying herself. “Rickon, you’ve gotten so big!”

“I’m eight now,” he says proudly.

“Practically a man grown.” 

He grins up at her, then catches sight of Theon behind her.

“Theon!”

Theon grins and swings the boy into the air. Sansa takes the opportunity to greet Maester Luwin, who smiles warmly at the sight of her. 

“It’s good to see you, Lady Sansa,” the old man greets, taking her hand in his. “Your journey was safe, I trust?”

“Very safe, but too long. It’s good to be back.” She looks around the courtyard, breathing in the cool air. 

“There is much to discuss,” the maester says. “I’m sure you want to rest after your long journey, and visit with your friends here, but first, I must impart to you the tidings in your mother’s last raven.”

“Please,” she encourages.

“First, Stannis Baratheon has agreed to recognize the North’s sovereignty if the North helps him defeat the Lannisters and take the Iron Throne. Second, your sister Arya is alive and well.”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “Arya’s alive?”

“Arya?” Rickon asks, standing beside his sister. He strokes the head of Shaggydog, who’s grown into a formidable size since Sansa last saw him. 

Maester Luwin bows his head. “She appeared at Riverrun a fortnight ago. Your mother did not enclose the particulars.”

Sansa had given Arya up for dead; everyone had, except for Catelyn. Now that she’s alive, though, Sansa feels a lump forming in her throat, almost as if she might cry.  _ Arya’s alive _ . She’s alive, and with their mother, and someday Sansa will see her again. 

.

Ser Rodrik arranges a great feast that night. Sansa, now having outgrown her old dresses, takes one of her mother’s, making a few hasty alterations so that it will fit. She’ll have to make new dresses for herself.

There are many things she has to do, but she tries not to think about them now. Tonight is her homecoming and she plans to enjoy it.

It’s a lively affair; the hall fills with music and chatter, and Sansa drinks more than her usual cup of wine. It makes her merry, and she finds herself laughing more than she has in a very long time. Ser Rodrik keeps her entertained with tales of the goings-on at Winterfell, and little Beth Cassel has a store of gossip saved up. Sansa, Beth, and Jeyne were all close friends in the days before, and she hopes they will be again. 

Sansa and Jeyne drink more than they ought, too happy to be home and surrounded by friends to care. No one faults them for it; they’re all merry off wine and ale, too. 

When the hour is late, Beth Cassel gets up and sings one of Sansa’s favorite songs, a tale of Florian and Jonquil. Beth’s high, sweet voice moves Sansa, as does the tale of the lovers, and Sansa finds her eyes filling with tears. Everyone applauds Beth when she finishes, but none louder than Sansa.

Some of the attendees begin stumbling to bed after that--whether it’s their own or someone else’s matters little. Sansa doesn’t miss the fact that Theon is one of these stumblers, a grin on his face as he chases after a dark-haired serving maid. Nor does Sansa miss the way Jeyne goes ramrod stiff, a hot flush rising in her cheeks as she watches them go.

“I want to take a walk,” she announces, rising up and swaying. 

“Jeyne,” Sansa starts to say, but Jeyne is already stumbling out of the hall. Sansa tears after her, having a sinking feeling about what her friend is trying to do. 

Sure enough, by the time she catches up to Jeyne, the girl is confronting Theon and his serving maid in the godswood. Both of them look embarrassed, though whether that’s for themselves or for Jeyne is unclear. 

“Jeyne,” Sansa murmurs, reaching for her friend’s hand.

“This is a  _ godswood _ ,” Jeyne hiccups. Her chest is heaving with barely concealed emotion.

“Jeyne,” Sansa urges, tugging on her hand.

Theon murmurs something to the serving maid, who skitters out of the godswood. Jeyne watches her go with accusing eyes before turning back to Theon.

“Well?” she demands.

“Jeyne. You’re drunk,” he says gently. 

“So what?” she asks in the same demanding tone. 

He takes a step closer. “You’re upset about something that won’t matter in the morning.”

“It will!” Tears start streaming down her face. “It will always matter because you only want women who will let you between their legs, and, and…” She lurches to the edge of the clearing just before her wine-stained dinner spills from between her lips. Sansa holds back her hair, rubbing the other girl’s back as she retches. 

Poor Jeyne. How long has she been harboring feelings for Theon? She’d always thought him handsome before, but the old Jeyne had thought  _ everyone _ was handsome. The old Jeyne had declared herself ready to marry Beric Dondarrion the moment she saw him. This...this is different. This isn’t the light infatuation of a young girl. This is something else, something far more meaningful. Theon saved her from a life of whoredom. He must be like a knight in shining armor to her, the hero of a song where she is the lady who loves him. 

How disappointed she must be to find him in the godswood, ready to tumble a serving maid. 

Once, Sansa might have regarded such feelings with scorn, but now she feels only pity. It isn’t Jeyne’s fault she’s formed an attachment to the man who saved her, and probably the only man around whom she feels safe. It isn’t Theon’s fault, either, that he doesn’t return her feelings. Jeyne is still young, not yet fifteen, and he is a man grown.

“She should go to bed,” Theon says, standing beside them.

“I’ll take her.” Sansa starts to lead the sobbing Jeyne away, but Theon stops her.

“I’ll carry her.” With one easy movement, he hefts the girl up in his arms. Jeyne wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Sansa can only follow helplessly as Theon carries her into the castle, avoiding the hall so as to draw less attention. Sansa’s glad he offered to carry Jeyne; they get to her room in a matter of minutes where it would have taken Sansa a long time to drag her drunken friend through the castle.

Once in her room, Theon sets the girl down on the bed and then pours her a healthy cup of water. Sansa sits beside Jeyne, stroking the hair from her forehead. Jeyne won’t look at Theon when he hands her the cup; she sits up, letting a curtain of dark hair hide her face from him. 

“Thank you, Theon,” Sansa says with a meaningful look. He nods and takes his leave, shutting the door softly behind him. 

“I hate him,” Jeyne declares with a hiccup.

“You don’t hate him.”

Jeyne deflates. “No. I don’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way about him?” Sansa asks softly.

Jeyne’s eyes water all over again. “I didn’t realize it until now. I think...I don’t know. I was so used to him just being ours. When I saw him with that girl…” She buries her face in her hands. “I can never look at him again.”

“You can, and you will.” Sansa pries her hands from her face. “You’re drunk, Jeyne, that’s all.”

“He must hate me,” she mumbles.

“He could never hate you.”

“I scared off that serving maid just to shout at him. Everything he’s done for me…” She wipes her eyes. “He only wants to lie with women, he doesn’t want to love them or marry them. I could only have him if I opened my legs for him, but I don’t want to open my legs ever again.”

Sansa doesn’t rightly know what to say to such talk. “Jeyne…”

“I’m being stupid.” The other girl flops down on the bed, rolling onto her side. 

Sansa lies behind her, tentatively draping one arm over her. “Someone will love and marry you someday, Jeyne.”

“They won’t.”

“They  _ will _ . And you won’t have to open your legs for them if you don’t want to because they’ll love you too much to care.”

But some part of Sansa wonders if that’s really true. Men want sons, and failing that, they want pleasure. It would be a rare man indeed who would marry a girl who refused to let him in her bed. 

Sansa holds her friend until they both fall asleep.

.

When she wakes in the morning, it’s with a dull headache and a dry mouth. Jeyne is still sound asleep, so Sansa slips out of her room and into her own, where she gulps down enough water to soothe her throat. She washes her face with soap and combs her hair before changing into another one of her mother’s gowns. 

Rickon is already in the hall when she comes down to break her fast. He beams at her, and Shaggydog lopes over to sniff her as she takes her seat.

“Remember me?” she asks the direwolf. He licks her hand before settling at her feet, waiting for stray crumbs.

“Ser Rodrik said he has to be in the kennels, but I’ve trained him to be good,” Rickon informs her. “He still gets wild sometimes, but he’s much better now. I think he’s sad. He’s the only wolf here now.”

_ The lone wolf dies but the pack survives _ . 

“I’m sorry about Lady,” he says in a solemn voice. 

She sighs. “So am I. I should never have left Winterfell.”

“But you’re back now.”

“I’m back now,” she agrees. She helps herself to the bread and bacon before her. “Rickon...why did Bran leave?”

“He said he had to. To protect me.”

“To protect you?” she asks in surprise. 

The boy nods, still solemn. “He said he had to meet the Three Eyed Raven.”

“What’s the Three Eyed Raven?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But he said he had to meet him. He took Hodor. I miss Hodor. No one can crack walnuts like he can.”

Sansa mulls this over. Perhaps Maester Luwin will be able to tell her more.

Theon joins them before long, looking fresh and alert. Sansa can’t tell if he spent the night in the serving maid’s company, and that bothers her for some reason. She thinks of Jeyne, still sleeping off the wine’s effects.

Theon must be thinking of her, too, because he leans over to Sansa. “How is she?”

“Asleep.” Sansa doesn’t mean for it to sound as curt as it does.

He sighs. “Sansa, you know I haven’t been...encouraging her…”

“I know.” And she does; as much as Theon likes flirting, she’s never seen him do it with Jeyne. 

“I consider her a friend.”

“I know.”

He shakes his head, drinking the brown ale set in front of him. “She should set her sights higher. She deserves better than me.”

That surprises Sansa. Theon’s blood is nobler than Jeyne’s, and though his father is a traitor and Jeyne is now the lady of her house, he was a ward of the Starks, whereas Jeyne’s father served as their steward. If Robb puts down the Greyjoy rebellion, he’ll likely name Theon Lord of the Iron Islands, and Theon will have his pick of heiresses.

And Jeyne…

Well, she’ll be lucky if she marries at all.

Across from her, Theon straightens up. Sansa looks over at the door and sees Jeyne standing there, frozen. She starts to call out to her, but Jeyne turns on her heel and leaves.

“Give her time,” Sansa suggests weakly. 

“Let’s hope the gods give me enough of it.”

She pales, remembering where Theon is headed after this. “Are you afraid?”

“A little,” he admits, sipping his ale. “I don’t think Asha will kill me, but…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

He doesn’t have to.


	17. ARYA II

Arya wakes in the middle of the night to shouting in the corridor. She blearily opens her eyes, feeling her mother stir beside her.

They’d taken to sleeping in the same bed, unwilling to let each other go for even a night. It feels good, to be held by her mother like she’s a small child again. It’s as if she’s safe again, here in her mother’s arms behind Riverrun’s walls with Robb’s army surrounding them.

The shouting in the corridor is the first time she feels a stir of danger. She sits up, rubbing her eyes. It’s early morning, the light pale in the window.

Someone pounds on the door and in an urgent voice says, “Cat, I need to speak with you.”

Edmure. He sounds worried, and that makes Arya worried.

“Come in,” Catelyn calls, clearing her throat when her voice sounds too scratchy from sleep.

Her younger brother enters, his face as worried as his voice. “Cat, something...something terrible has happened.”

Catelyn puts her arm around Arya. “What is it, Edmure?”

He shifts from foot to foot, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. “I...Robb’s squire went to wake him, as he does every morning, and...he found the king. Dead.”

Arya’s heart thunders in her ears, so loudly that she doesn’t hear her uncle, though she sees his lips moving and a sorrowful expression on his face. “What?” she demands loudly.

“Someone came in the night...cut his throat. And his queen’s, too.”

Catelyn lets out a strangled cry. Arya sits there, staring in stunned silence. 

Someone killed Robb.

Robb is dead.

_ Robb is dead _ . 

“Who killed him?” she asks, already stumbling out of bed.

“We don’t know,” Edmure admits. “Uncle Brynden is questioning the men who kept watch.”

“I want to see him.” Catelyn gets out of bed, her hands trembling as she reaches for her robe. 

“Cat--”

“I want to see my son,” she declares, her voice surprisingly firm. 

Edmure reluctantly stands aside for his sister. Arya follows her mother, breath ragged.

There are a dozen or so men standing in Robb’s chamber, all gathered round the bed and talking in heated voices. At the sight of the two Starks, they fall silent and step aside. 

Robb and Jeyne lie tangled in bed, naked and still. She lies curled against his chest, and were it not for their glassy wide eyes and the blood dried on their throats, they might be sleeping. 

Arya is no stranger to death. She’s seen plenty of dead men, watched them die.

_ What do we say to the god of death? _

_ Not today. _

But Robb is dead today, and he will be dead forever after, and nothing can bring him back.

Arya’s eyes sting with angry tears. Who would take her brother from her? So soon after she came back to him, so soon after he married the woman he loves?

“Who did this?” a cold, angry voice asks, and for a moment, Arya thinks it is her own.

But it is her mother’s, and it chills Arya to the very bone.

“I’d wager my life it was Walder Frey,” the Greatjon rumbles. “Felt slighted by King Robb breaking his vow.”

“It was Stannis Baratheon,” Lord Karstark growls. “He killed his brother, why shouldn’t he kill our king?”

Catelyn sinks to her knees, and immediately the men rush to help her. 

“I can walk,” she protests weakly, but Edmure carries his sister back to her chamber. Arya follows, frightened at how weak her mother seems. As soon as Edmure sets her down on her bed, she bursts into tears, burying her face in her hands. Arya crawls onto the bed and Catelyn grabs her close, weeping into the girl’s short hair.

Somewhere in the castle, Grey Wind howls.

.

Nearly everyone in the castle is questioned, but at the end of the day, no one knows who the killer is. There are a hundred theories, and while all of them seem unlikely, Arya knows that one of them has to be true.  _ Someone _ killed Robb, and whoever it was knew their way around Riverrun and knew how to not be seen. Which means that Robb was killed by someone he knew.

Arya lies in her mother’s bed and thinks about it all day. While Catelyn watches the Silent Sisters prepare Robb and his queen for burial in the crypts of Winterfell, Arya stares at the ceiling and tries to figure out who would have done it.

The Lannisters are the obvious answer, but how would any of them get into the castle? They must have had an agent. But who among them serves the Lannisters, and what do they hope to gain from it? Lands and titles? A royal pardon?

What if it isn’t even someone who serves the Lannisters? What if someone didn’t want Robb to be king? Or what if they wanted him to be king and then grew disgruntled under his reign? Lord Karstark has long sought revenge for the deaths of his sons, and it’s no secret he felt Robb had not taken action. But to kill him? 

Perhaps the Greatjon is right and it was a Frey, furious that Robb dishonored his vow. That would be more likely. But all the Freys packed up and left when Robb married Jeyne Westerling.

So who did it? 

.

When Arya can abide her mother’s chamber no longer, she puts on the dress a maid had altered for her and takes a walk around the castle. Everyone has been urging her to rest, but she doesn’t feel like resting at all. She feels more awake than she’s ever been, vibrating with nervous, angry energy.

Robb’s killer may still be amongst them.

She draws near the great hall, and as she does, she hears a cacophony of angry voices. She creeps closer, straining her ears.

“How are we to defeat the Lannisters with no king?”

“We should surrender now.”

“Ned Stark had three sons!”

“Aye, a cripple and a wee lad barely off his mother’s teat!”

“My lords!” Catelyn’s voice thunders through the hall, and the voices settle into low grumbling. “My lords, listen to me! Whoever killed my son  _ wants _ us to bow to the Lannisters! The Lannisters killed my husband, your liege lord, and my son, your king! We cannot let them win!”

“And who will lead us, Lady Stark? Your second son? A mere boy, and crippled to boot.”

“I regret to inform my lords that my second son...is nowhere to be found. He left Winterfell two months ago, and we have not seen or heard from him since.”

The voices break out again, silencing her mother.

Gods, does this mean Rickon is King in the North? A boy of only eight? Will the Northern lords rally behind him? Or will they surrender to the Lannisters at long last?

Someone bangs a cup on a table. 

“My lords.” That voice belongs to Roose Bolton; high and clear, Arya would recognize it anywhere. “We have fought the Lannisters bravely, and though we have won every battle, we are losing the war. Our king is dead, his wife slain, his heir missing. Ned Stark’s last trueborn son is a boy of eight. What should happen if he dies, too?”

A hush falls over the crowd. 

“I will not follow a child into war alongside a man who has already been defeated by the Lannisters. I will take my men and beg Tywin Lannister’s pardon. I advise you all to do the same.”

Half the room roars in outrage.

“Lord Bolton!” Catelyn shouts over it all. “You swore an  _ oath _ \--”

“I swore to honor Robert Baratheon as my king. I swore to honor Robb Stark as my king. Both of them are dead. I shall swear my honor to the living king.”

Arya is furious at what she hears. 

“If you were  _ ever _ loyal to my son, you will stand your ground!” Catelyn shouts. “We can still defeat the Lannisters if we join forces with Stannis Baratheon, and when he grants us sovereignty--”

“When  _ he _ grants us sovereignty? I thought we  _ were _ sovereign,  _ Lady Stark _ .”

“We are sovereign, and my sons--”

“Enough! I’ll not obey a bloody woman.”

Arya starts to storm into the hall, but a quick pair of hands scoops her up.

“Put me down!” she protests, kicking out. She twists around to see Dacey Mormont hefting her as easily as if she were a small child. It is only her admiration for the Mormont women that makes Arya stop kicking, and after a moment, Dacey sets her down. 

“He shouldn’t speak to my mother that way,” she says stubbornly. 

“He shouldn’t,” Dacey agrees. “But you running in there isn’t going to change his mind.”

Arya bites her lip. “Are we going to lose this war?”

“I don’t know,” Dacey says honestly. “Northmen are loyal, and if any of them stay, it’ll be because they loved your father and your brother, and they respect their memories.”

“But,” Arya prompts.

“But. They want a strong leader. One of their own. Your brother is a child, your mother is a woman, and Stannis is a southerner. There will be many who follow Roose Bolton and bend the knee to Joffrey.”

“But you won’t.”

“No. We Mormonts are loyal.” She puts her hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, and his name is Stark.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come say hi on tumblr!](jeynepoole.tumblr.com)


	18. JEYNE VI

Theon and the men ride out three days after arriving in Winterfell. He’d given them time to see their families, knowing that most of them hadn’t been home since Robb called the banners.

Jeyne has been doing her best to avoid him. She’s mortified by her behavior in the godswood, and by the pitying looks Sansa keeps giving her. Jeyne wants none of Sansa’s pity, so she’d thrown herself into making new dresses. Her old ones are too short and too tight, particularly in the chest. She’d been a mere child when she left Winterfell, and now...now she is a woman, or near enough. She is certainly growing into a woman’s body, a soft suppleness rounding out her chest and hips. 

_ Yet Theon thinks I am still a child _ .

She doesn’t know why it matters so much. If he  _ did _ return her feelings, he would want to lie with her, and Jeyne...Jeyne doesn’t think she could bear that. How could she refuse him? 

_ Someone will love and marry you someday, Jeyne. And you won’t have to open your legs for them if you don’t want to because they’ll love you too much to care. _

But who would ever love her that much? She isn’t beautiful like Sansa, isn’t charming like Ros. She’s plain in every respect, and Theon...Theon doesn’t want that.  _ He deserves a woman who will lie with him without flinching. _

She’s jolted out of her thoughts by Sansa calling Rickon to her. The boy has been talking to the men and petting their horses, but now he bounds back to his sister.

Theon strides from the stables and swings onto his horse, giving the call for the men to do the same. His eyes lock with Jeyne’s, and for a long moment, she stands there, frozen. He bows his head at her before wheeling his horse around and leading the march out the gate. The men follow him in two columns, their horses kicking up mud as they head out.

Rickon looks up at Jeyne. “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

It’s only then that she realizes she’s crying.

.

The castle is quieter after the men leave; more subdued. Rickon picks listlessly at his food over dinner, missing Theon’s company. The older boy is like a brother to Rickon, and it had made the younger boy so happy to see him. 

Rickon is not the only person to feel melancholy at Theon’s absence. Jeyne, too, cannot help but stare at the seat he occupied the last few nights, missing his smiles and his laughter. It’s occurred to her that Theon might not come back from Deepwood Motte. She doubts his sister  would actually  _ kill _ him, but his own father had essentially signed his death warrant. Why should his sister be any better?

“Why does Jeyne keep crying?” Rickon whispers to Sansa, unfortunately not quiet enough to go unheard by Jeyne. 

“She’s worried about Theon,” Sansa whispers back.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“I don’t know, Rickon.”

Jeyne gets up. “I’m tired,” she lies. “I think I’ll go to bed early.”

Sansa and Rickon give her pitying looks, and that makes her want to cry harder. She leaves as quickly as it is possible to while still maintaining an air of composure; once she is in Sansa’s room, she lets the tears fall freely. She dresses for bed, climbing under the furs.

When Sansa comes up for bed, Jeyne pretends to be asleep. That doesn’t stop Sansa from snuggling against the other girl’s back and whispering, “Everything will be alright. I promise.”

Jeyne wants desperately to believe her.

.

Sometime in the night, a knock wakes the two girls from their slumber. 

“Lady Sansa? It’s Maester Luwin.”

The girls sit up, rubbing sleep from their eyes.

“Come in, Maester Luwin,” Sansa calls, voice catching on a yawn. 

The old man pushes open the door, inclining his head. “Pardon, my lady, but Bolton men are approaching the castle.”

“Bolton men?” Sansa asks, pushing aside the furs. “What do they want?”

“I couldn’t say, my lady, but I thought it best if you greeted them.”

“Yes, of course.” 

The two girls pull on dressing gowns and cloaks, wrapping themselves up as modestly as they can on such short notice. Together, they head down to the yard, fighting back yawns as they prepare to greet the visitors. 

The yard is full of men carrying the Bolton banner. At their head is a dark-haired, bright-eyed young man, probably not much older than Theon and Robb. He would be handsome if his face were not so sharp.

“Lady Sansa.” He swings off his horse, striding forward to greet her. 

Sansa waits patiently and politely as the man bows. “You come from the Dreadfort?”

“I do, my lady. I’m Ramsay Snow; my father is Lord Bolton.”

Snow. A bastard. Lord Bolton’s bastard. The bastard who married Lady Hornwood…

...and starved her to death.

Jeyne grips Sansa’s arm.

“What brings you here?” Sansa asks, and if she remembers the story the Cerwyns told her, she gives no indication. 

“I have news from my father, my lady. May I speak with you in private?”

Sansa glances at Jeyne, and then at Maester Luwin.

“The receiving hall is empty, my lady,” Maester Luwin murmurs.

Sansa turns back to Ramsay Snow. “This way.” 

“I would like to speak to your brother as well, my lady. He should hear this.”

Sansa pauses, glancing at Jeyne again. “Jeyne. Would you bring Rickon here, please? Tell him he may bring Shaggydog.”

_ Tell him to bring Shaggydog. _

Jeyne dips into a curtsy. “At once, my lady.” She moves quickly, heading up to Rickon’s room.

Great yellow eyes greet her when she opens the door, and for a moment, she sees the glint of bared fangs.

“Easy, Shaggydog,” Rickon murmurs, sitting up and stroking the direwolf’s back. Shaggydog’s tongue lolls out of his mouth. “What is it, Jeyne?”

“Lord Bolton’s son is here; he says he needs to speak with you and your sister. She says you can bring Shaggydog.”

Rickon perks up, fairly bounding out of bed. “Here, Shaggydog!”

The wolf unfurls its limbs, hopping off the bed in one easy movement and following his human out into the corridor. The boy is not even wearing shoes or a cloak, but Jeyne doesn’t care; the sooner they get to the receiving hall, the sooner she can be with Sansa and ensure Ramsay Snow doesn’t have designs upon her.

But surely he would never. His father swore an oath to Robb. Why would Lord Bolton’s bastard son force his princess to marry him?

Sansa and Maester Luwin are sitting at the table in the receiving hall, Ramsay Snow sitting across from them. His eyes flicker to Shaggydog, widening as the great beast lopes into the room. Rickon takes the seat beside Sansa, and Jeyne, after closing the door, stands behind Sansa’s chair. Ramsay Snow eyes her questioningly, but Sansa says, “Jeyne is my trusted confidante and a loyal friend to House Stark. Whatever you say to us, you may say to her.”

Ramsay Snow inclines his head. “Very well, my lady.” He looks up at them, smiling broadly. “What I have to tell you is this.

Your brother is dead. His wife is dead. Your other brother is missing, and the only remaining  _ trueborn _ son of Ned Stark is a child that no one will follow into battle, least of all with  _ Stannis Baratheon _ . Even now my father is leading his men here, to take his seat as Warden of the North, thanks to the generosity of King Joffrey.

In short, your lives are in my hands.”

Ramsay Snow leans back and smiles. 


	19. ARYA III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter is kind of info-dumpy and I apologize, but there was like no other way to make the story move along. (There probably was, I'm just sleep deprived and tired of staring at this Google doc.) 
> 
> Also, in the vein of mixing show and book canon, I am excising the dumb plotline where Melisandre takes Gendry and puts a leech on his peen, because. Yeah. 
> 
> Also I just wanna say that reading y'all's comments makes my WEEK?? I honestly never expected anyone else to read this and it's such a cool feeling when people not only read it but also share their thoughts on it?? So thank you for doing that.

Edmure enters with a grim look on his face. “The Boltons have moved north, and they’ve taken the Karstarks, Dustins, and Hornwoods with them.”

“Why north?” Stannis Baratheon asks. The king had ridden from Dragonstone as soon as he received the raven bearing news of Robb’s death--no doubt anxious to ensure that their alliance still stands. 

Arya thinks he’s a funny man, but she keeps that to herself. Though he is serious and stern to a fault, he is a man of honor and has been kind to Arya and her mother ever since he arrived. He has even brought his daughter, Shireen, to be a companion to Arya. Arya likes Shireen, even if she does have a face mottled with greyscale; she is even kinder than her father, and unlike either of her parents, has a sense of humor. 

Better even than Shireen, though, Arya likes Stannis’s Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth. A gruff man by nature, the Onion Knight always has a kind word for Arya, and when there are no important people about, he’ll regale her and Shireen with stories of his past as a smuggler. 

But there are many important people about, and this is no time for stories about smuggling.

“That brings me to my other news--Joffrey is dead.”

Arya sits up straight. She isn’t the only one.

“Joffrey?” Catelyn repeats. “How?”

“Poisoned at his wedding feast. Cersei has accused her brother Tyrion of doing the deed.”

Arya stares hard at the table in front of her. Joffrey had been on her list, and now that he’s dead, she can’t help feeling...empty. She thought she’d feel happy that he’s dead, one more name to cross off her list...but some part of her wishes desperately that she’d been the one to kill him. She would’ve liked to cut off his head the way he’d cut off her father’s head. She’d have liked to do it in front of his mother. Let her watch helplessly as Arya had. 

“Tyrion wouldn’t poison his own nephew,” Catelyn says begrudgingly. “Whatever my quibbles with him, he is a man of honor and would not stoop to poisoning his own kin.”

“Who did kill him, then?” Arya wonders aloud.

“It could be anyone; from what I understand, the little bastard made many enemies.” Ser Davos shifts behind them. 

“Who will rule now?” Shireen asks.

“They’ll crown Tommen, but Tywin will control him with an even firmer hand than he did Joffrey,” Stannis tells her.

“I wonder…” Catelyn says slowly. “Perhaps Joffrey made an agreement with the Boltons, and now that he’s dead, the small council is refusing to honor that agreement.”

“We can’t even be sure it was the Boltons who killed Robb,” Edmure points out.

“Who else would it be? The Karstarks were the most disgruntled with Robb, but Lord Karstark would never slit his king’s throat in his sleep. He may be a traitor, but he has too much honor to serve a knife in the dark. Lady Dustin has no quarrel with House Stark, and Lady Hornwood was loyal to House Stark before she was forced into marriage with the Bolton bastard. Roose Bolton has everything to gain from Robb’s death; with the crown’s blessing, he can legitimize his bastard and name an heir for his house while being named Warden of the North.”

“Still, why go north?” Selyse Baratheon asks. Arya doesn’t like Shireen’s mother; she’s somehow as stern and serious as her husband, but unlike her husband, she’s unkind to Shireen, which to Arya is unforgivable. “Whatever arrangement they made with Joffrey could surely be transferred to Tommen. The small council has every reason to take Northern forces away from House Stark and add them to their own forces.”

“Perhaps the arrangement wasn’t good enough and now they’re marching home in protest,” Edmure offers.

Catelyn shakes her head. “No. They’re up to something.” She drums her fingers on the tabletop. “I mislike this.”

“Even if they are planning something, we should march on King’s Landing,” Stannis urges. “Now is the time to strike; one boy king has died, only to be replaced by another, and the Lannisters are turning on one another. Tywin Lannister will be consumed with his children’s quarrel; he won’t have the presence of mind to fight a war.”

“I understand,” Catelyn says gently, “but what if the Boltons march on Winterfell? My son, my  _ last _ son, is waiting there. The King in the North. If they kill him…” She stands up. “I must leave you, Your Grace.”

Stannis rises as well. “Forgive me, Lady Stark, but I thought we had come to an agreement?”

“We had, and we still do. I will not withdraw my troops. My  _ son’s _ troops,” she corrects. “As his regent, I am entrusting you with the Northern forces while I take a small contingent to the Eyrie.”

“The Eyrie?”

“My sister Lysa has not taken a side in this war, but I know her hatred for the Lannisters is strong. And though she is an Arryn by marriage, she is a Tully by birth. Family, duty, honor. Those are the Tully words, and my sister ought not forget them. Let me urge her to our cause; if the Boltons are truly planning something, I can divert her troops north and ensure my son’s safety. That way, I need not withdraw the Northern forces.”

Stannis looks impressed--or as impressed as a man with his stern face can. “You are exceedingly clever, my lady; your son will prosper under your guidance.”

She inclines her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I only have one qualm; is your sister not mad?”

Arya bristles on behalf of the aunt she’s never met, but Catelyn looks resigned. “Lysa is...changed. The years have not been kind to her. But the Vale cannot long stay out of this war. She must know that. And if she would let her own brother and sister face the Lannisters alone, she is no sister of mine.”

Stannis bows his head. “Very well, my lady. I am honored by your trust in me, and I pray that your children are safe.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Catelyn turns to her brother. “Edmure, gather the Northern lords so that I may tell them our plan. And Arya.” She turns to her daughter. “Pack your things.”

“I’m going with you?” Arya asks excitedly, hopping out of her seat.

“Trouble always seems to find my children as soon as I am not with them; I am keeping you close. Besides, it is high time you met your aunt, and your cousin.” 

“Can we bring Grey Wind?” Robb’s direwolf had been in the kennels the night he died, and he’s been there ever since. No one seems to know what to do with him. Arya visits him when she can, petting the direwolf’s thick fur and feeding him scraps from the kitchens. She’s taken Shireen a few times, and the other girl had blessedly shown no fear; she’d taken to Grey Wind as if he were a mere puppy. It would be a shame for Grey Wind to stay in the kennels when he could be out and about, traveling alongside Arya to the Eyrie. 

Catelyn considers this. “I suppose there is no harm in that. He should be with a Stark. He could not protect your brother, but perhaps he can protect you.”

Grey Wind is no Nymeria, but he is her littermate, and he is a direwolf besides. Arya’s missed the company of a wolf. It’s been too long. 

_ The lone wolf dies _ , her father’s voice whispers in her head.  _ But the pack survives _ .


	20. SANSA VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H o n e s t l y I cannot believe I've made it TWENTY CHAPTERS into this fic??? And we've barely gotten into AFFC territory?? And y'all are READING it?? As a homeless man said to me earlier this week, may your blessings be multiplied upon you.

Ramsay Snow has two hundred men inside Winterfell and four hundred men surrounding it. What few soldiers are within the castle walls are told to lay down their swords.

Ramsay makes Rickon officially surrender the castle in front of all of Winterfell’s inhabitants. In a quavering voice, the young boy repeats the words that Ramsay whispers in his ear. 

Sansa stands at her brother’s side, stunned into silence. Can Robb really be dead? Can the Boltons really be taking over the North?

_ Joffrey will have promised Roose Bolton the wardenship of the North if he bends the knee _ , she realizes.  _ And he may legitimize Ramsay, giving Roose an heir. _

And as for her and Rickon…

“I will put it plainly,” Ramsay had said to her. “If you do not cooperate with me, I will kill your brother.” Then he had turned to Rickon. “If you do not cooperate with me, I will kill your sister.”

Sansa believes him, too; if he had let his own wife starve to death, why wouldn’t he kill the king he’s trying to overthrow, or that king’s sister? The real question is, why is he even letting them live this long?

“You’re a traitorous bastard,” Ser Rodrik growls. 

“Peace, Ser Rodrik,” Sansa calls before Ramsay can react. “Those who surrender need not be harmed.”

“Listen to your lady,” Ramsay says with a wide smirk. “My father has been named Warden of the North by our gracious king--”

“The only king I know is the King in the North!” Mikken bellows.

“ _ Don’t _ !” Sansa cries, anguished. “Robb is dead, no one else need die!”

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Mikken says. “But I’ll hang before I let this traitorous son of a whore take Winterfell.”

“That can be arranged,” Ramsay says coolly. “I prefer flaying, of course, but if hanging is your wish…”

“No.” Sansa turns to him with an imploring expression. “Please, my lord--”

But Ramsay’s men are already taking hold of Mikken.

“Please!” Sansa begs.

“Don’t kill him!” Rickon screams.

Shouts and screams rise up in the yard as the Bolton men tie a rope around Mikken’s neck. They stand him on a barrel and throw the end of the rope to two men on the ramparts; they hold the rope while a third man kicks the barrel from beneath Mikken’s feet. He spasms horrifically, filling the air with choking sounds. Sansa grabs Rickon and turns his face into her stomach, holding him tight so that he won’t see. For her own part, she squeezes her eyes shut, her breath coming hard and fast.

When she opens her eyes, Mikken’s body is limp.

“Winterfell now belongs to House Bolton,” Ramsay tells the crowd. “Anyone who disagrees will be flayed. This is your last warning.” He turns and heads inside the castle, and after a beat, Sansa, Rickon, Jeyne, and Shaggydog trip after him. 

“What are you going to do with us?” Sansa asks, struggling to keep up with Ramsay’s long strides.

“Nothing, until my father gets here. Oh.” he stops, turning to Sansa. “I will be marrying you.”

Her heart pounds so hard that she struggles to breathe. “I...what?”

“You are the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark--I could not ask for a more noble match. And besides, you  _ are _ the Lady of Winterfell; what better way to ensure an inheritance for my sons?”

Sansa sways on the spot. She feels Jeyne’s hands on her arms, steadying her. 

“Are you going to lock me in a tower and starve me to death the way you did with your last wife?” she asks hoarsely.

Ramsay grins. “Of course not. Donella was too old to bear me sons, but you...you will bear me  _ plenty _ of sons.” He leans in close, dropping his voice to a murmur. “And if you try anything,  _ anything _ at all that would displease me...I’ll flay your little brother.”

Sansa really does faint then, and her last thought before all turns to black is,  _ I would rather be married to Joffrey _ .

 


	21. THEON VI

It’s just over a day’s ride to Deepwood Motte. Theon and his men arrive late in the morning, Stark banners snapping in the wind.

Theon had scarce been able to sleep last night. He’d lain awake for hours wondering what his sister will be like, what she’ll say to him. What she’ll do. Will she even care about him? Or is she like his father, already resigned to his death...at the Starks’ hands or her own?

His breath rattles low in his lungs now as he takes in the sight of the keep. The Greyjoy kraken hangs over the battlements, and above it, a sentry shouting down into the yard. Another man appears at the sentry’s side, peering down at the Stark men.

“What be your business, lad?”

Theon draws himself up, willing himself to appear as hard and unyielding as iron. “I am Theon Greyjoy, the only living son of Balon Greyjoy. I’ve come to treat with my sister, Asha.”

The two men eye him mistrustfully, but he is wearing his kraken breastplate, which gives them pause. After a long moment, the second man turns and heads back into the turret.

Theon doesn’t have long to wait; in a few moments, the gate opens. Standing across the threshold is a woman that can only be Asha.

She’s so different from the girl he remembers. She is a woman grown now, all the childish roundness in her face gone, her stick-thin body giving way to round breasts and rounder hips. Underneath her leather, he can see that she’s muscled. Her hair is cropped short, arms folded across her chest, and on her face is a look of wary curiosity.

“Is that you, little brother?” she calls. Her voice is deep now, not the high, childish note he remembers. 

_ She looks and sounds so different, but underneath it all, is she still my sister?  _

“If you are my sister Asha, then yes.”

Her lips twitch in something like a smile. “Come inside so we can talk, you and I. Leave your men out here; there’s no room for them in the yard.”

He regards her for a moment, considering her offer. It would be an easy trap. But then, it would be an easier trap if he brought all his men inside where they can’t escape. Perhaps it is she who fears a trap, seeing his hundred men and wondering if they’re here to kill her.

He turns to his men. “Wait here.” He swings off his horse, handing the halter to the nearest man behind him, and then strides into the yard.

Asha scrutinizes him as he walks up to her.

“You look well,” she says at last.

“So do you.”

“Thank you.” She drops her arms, turning. “Shall we have some ale?”

“I would be glad of it.” He follows her into the castle. Her men are in the great hall, their chatter kept to a dull murmur. Their eyes follow him suspiciously. He ignores them, following Asha into what looks like a small receiving chamber. She flops down into a great armchair, reaching over to the table beside her to pour two horns of ale.

“So what brings you here, little brother?”

He takes a moment to swallow his ale, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He hopes she doesn’t see how nervous he is. “You took Deepwood Motte.”

“I did.”

“I need you to give it back.”

Asha lets out a bark of laughter. “So that’s it, then? You’re still beholden to the Starks?”

“I was Ned Stark’s ward--”

“Oh, your  _ ward _ , is it?” Her eyes flash. “I thought you were his  _ captive _ .”

“Once, maybe, but King Robb calls me his brother,” he defends.

“Did you forget who you are?” She shakes her head. “I never thought I’d see you again, and now...I wish I hadn’t.”

Theon rises abruptly. “It’s not my fault our father rebelled against Robert and lost me in his war.”

Asha regards him calmly. “I know it isn’t.”

“You blame me for being Ned Stark’s captive?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I blame you for forgetting your real family.”

Theon shakes his head, fury welling inside him. “You think I’m the one who forgot? Our father knew that if he rebelled again, the price he’d have to pay would be my life. He rebelled anyway.”

“You’re still alive,” Asha points out.

“If Ned Stark was still alive, do you think I’d be standing here?” he counters, and the ugly truth hits him then. “Ned Stark...was a man of his word. If he had sworn to kill me if our father rebelled again…”  _ He would have. The man who raised me, gave me a home and a family...would have killed me if his honor had called for it.  _

Asha looks away. “Our father waited for you. For years, he waited. He thought that someday you’d be allowed to come home.” She looks back at him. “And finally he realized...you never would. And even if you did, you’d reek of wolf and forget who you are.”

“I haven’t forgotten who I am.”

“No?” Asha toys with her horn for a moment. “I received a raven last night.”

He blinks. “And?”

“And...our father is dead.”

Theon sinks back into his chair.

_ Our father is dead _ . The father he had not seen in nearly twelve years, the father who cared more about a crown he’d never win than his own son’s life...dead. 

“We’re preparing to sail back to Pyke,” Asha continues, watching him. “There will be a kingsmoot.”

“A kingsmoot,” he mutters.  _ Our father is dead. _

“Our uncles will want Father’s crown. Euron and Victarion.” 

“More power to them.”

“And now you’ll want it too, I suppose.”

He looks up at her, surprised. “What?”

“You’re Balon Greyjoy’s only living son. By the laws of your King Robb, the Iron Islands are yours to inherit.” Her tone is mocking.

They  _ are _ his to inherit. He could sail to Pyke and lay his claim. He could rule the Iron Islands in Robb’s name. 

Or.

Or he could put in his name for the kingsmoot, convince those loyal to his father that the driftwood crown is his to wear. True, he hasn’t been home in near twelve years, but why should that matter? 

And just as suddenly as the thought comes to him, it disappears. He can’t do that. Robb is his king, the Starks are his family. If he so much as sailed for Pyke, he’d be betraying the man who calls him “brother”. Even if the ironborn wanted him as their king, even if he wanted to return to that wet and miserable place, it would mean becoming Robb’s enemy. He’d rather die than do that.

Before he can express as much to Asha, the castle’s maester peers into the room.

“Forgive me, my lady, but a raven came from Winterfell for Lord Theon. It is quite urgent.”

Surprised, Theon takes the scroll from the maester. From Winterfell? He was just there yesterday. What could have happened?

_ Theon,  _

_ The Boltons have killed our king and queen and have taken Winterfell. Ramsay Snow means to wed Sansa this night. Hurry. _

_ Maester Luwin _

Theon stares at the scroll for a long, dumbfounded moment. Robb is dead. Robb is dead.

_ Robb is dead _ .

And the Bolton bastard has Winterfell, his  _ home _ , and means to wed Sansa. A fine way to win the North. And Rickon...he’ll be king now that Bran’s gone. Which means that once the Boltons don’t need him anymore…

Theon strides for the door.

“Where are you going?” Asha calls after him.

Theon doesn’t even break stride. “To save my family.”

  
  



	22. JEYNE VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been planning this chapter for a long time and I'm really excited I get to share it with you!!

No one sleeps that night. The Bolton men eat and drink and cause a great ruckus in the castle. Jeyne hides out in Sansa’s room with Sansa, Rickon, Osha, and Shaggydog. Rickon is terrified, and it takes the combined efforts of all three women to soothe him. Shaggydog, sensing Rickon’s distress, paces madly about the room. They ought to let him roam about, but none of them trust the Bolton men around the beast. Jeyne had seen the hungry way Ramsay had eyed the direwolf. He wants to own a direwolf, wants to show the North that he’s just as good as any Stark. His father killed Robb, and Ramsay will probably try to kill Rickon, and long after the Kings in the North are dead and Sansa has shed her Stark name for that of Bolton, Ramsay will own a direwolf, as if to say,  _ Look how easy it was to kill the Starks and take their wolves. _

But Ramsay won’t kill the Starks, or take their wolves. Jeyne won’t let him. Already she’s planted a knife under Sansa’s mattress; all Sansa has to do is reach under it during the bedding and slit Ramsay’s throat. Sansa’s never killed a man before, has never so much as used a knife, but Jeyne knows it will come to her...just as it had to her. 

She keeps her own knife in its leather garter. If she gets the chance, she may just use it at the wedding tonight. Slit Ramsay’s throat before he’s even taken Sansa as his bride. She would die for certain, killed by any of the six hundred Bolton men. It would be worth it, to save Sansa from marrying that monster.

But there’s no guarantee for Sansa and Rickon’s safety if she does that. Killing Ramsay may only get the Starks killed, and then her sacrifice would be rendered useless. 

Why had Theon left yesterday? If he had only waited another day, they might have stood a fighting chance. True, he only has a hundred men, and Ramsay outnumbers him six times, but they may have been able to hold down the castle until reinforcements could arrive. Now…

There’s no sense in dwelling on what ifs, she tells herself. She has to focus on the here and now. 

Servants bring them breakfast. They are silent, hands trembling ever so slightly as they arrange the dishes, but just before they leave, an old woman kisses Rickon’s hands and whispers, “Long live the King in the North.”

When Jeyne sees her later that day, the woman’s skin has been flayed from her body.

.

As the sun begins to set, men line the walkway to the godswood with lanterns. The kitchens are laboring over a last minute wedding feast, and in Sansa’s chamber, Jeyne and Beth Cassel alter one of Lady Catelyn’s gowns for the wedding. Ramsay had threatened to flay Rickon if Sansa did anything to displease him, so they’ve made sure they have done everything in their power to show their cooperation. Sansa takes a purple gown patterned with flourishing leaves, and Jeyne and Beth alter the gown to her frame. This done, she takes a bath, using sweet-smelling soap on her skin while Jeyne rubs even sweeter oils in her hair. 

It is full dark outside by the time they are finished, the moon rising in the sky. Rickon comes to Sansa’s chamber dressed in his finest leather tunic and fur cloak. 

“Ramsay said I could bring Shaggydog if we behave,” he informs his sister. Though this seems like a generous offer on Ramsay’s part, Jeyne knows better; if he allows the direwolf at the wedding, people will say that he is not so cruel, that the Starks willingly gave him Winterfell. Locking Shaggydog in the kennels would only confirm that he had taken Winterfell against their will.

“Do you remember the words?” Sansa asks, taking her brother’s arm. Jeyne and Osha follow them, Shaggydog padding along beside them. 

“I’ve been practicing. Sansa, why do you have to marry Ramsay?”

“Because he wants the North, and the Starks are the Wardens of the North.”

“But I thought the Boltons were  _ taking _ the North.”

“They are, but more people will follow them if they make it seem as though we gave it to them.” She stops suddenly, kneeling to face her brother. “Rickon, you know I love you. You know I would do anything to protect you.”

“I know,” he says, eyes wide.

“Then you must listen to me. Whatever I tell you to do, whenever I tell you to do it...you must listen. If I tell you to run, you run. Don’t look back, don’t wait for me, just run.”

“But--”

“Hush now. We have to go to the godswood.” Sansa stands back up, taking Rickon’s arm again. “Be brave, Rickon.”

“I will, Sansa.”

Winterfell is silent and still as they pass through its halls. Servants peer out from doorways, their eyes sorrowful as they watch their king and his sister sign away their lives to the bastard of Bolton. 

The lantern-lit path has an eerie sort of beauty to it as they pass into the godswood. Jeyne feels the eyes of the old gods watching them, watching the Starks that they have protected for thousands of years give everything over to the Boltons. 

Sansa and Rickon come to a halt. The godswood is quiet but for the sound of Shaggydog’s pants.

Maester Luwin clears his throat and steps forward. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

Rickon licks his lips. “Sansa of the House Stark comes here to be wed,” he says, his voice ringing oddly in the woods. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods.” He pauses for a long moment, trying to remember.

“Who comes to claim her,” Sansa prompts in a whisper.

“Who comes to claim her?” he repeats, loudly.

Ramsay steps forward. “Ramsay of House Bolton. Heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell.”

_ Like hell you are _ , Jeyne thinks viciously.

“Who gives her?”

“Rickon of House Stark, who is her brother.” He peers up at his sister, who offers a small smile.

“Lady Sansa.” Maester Luwin clears his throat again. “Will you take this man?”

Sansa is quiet for such a long moment that Ramsay’s expectant smile melts into a scowl. 

“Sansa?” Rickon whispers, but his sister shakes her head, trembling.

“Lady Sansa,” Maester Luwin repeats, eyes wide. “Will you take this man?”

Before she can answer, Shaggydog suddenly throws back his head and lets out a howl. Everyone’s eyes snap to the direwolf.

“What is it, Shaggydog?” Rickon asks the wolf, peering into its yellow eyes.

“What’s wrong with him?” Ramsay asks impatiently.

The direwolf howls again.

A horse whinnies in reply.

The godswood fills with the sound of hooves thundering over the ground. Sansa grabs Rickon, holding him tight to her. 

“What’s going on?” Ramsay demands, whirling on his men. “Where were the sentries?”

“I don’t know, my lord!”

Horses crash through the clearing, sending the Bolton men stumbling out of their path. In the lantern light, Jeyne can make out the direwolf banner, and riding at their head…

Is Theon.

She lets out a cry of relief. Theon is here.  _ Theon is here _ .

He looks fierce astride his horse, his jaw clenched in fury as he takes in the sight around him.

“Save your king!” he orders, swinging his sword as the first Bolton man comes running forward.

The ensuing melee leaves Jeyne horribly disoriented. Steel meets steel as the Bolton men charge at the Stark men. Horses are everywhere, and it’s all she can do to stumble out of their path. She loses sight of Sansa, Rickon, Osha, even Shaggydog, and with a surge of panic, she realizes that she’s alone, surrounded by Bolton men. 

And then she hears it.

_ “Jeyne!” _

She whirls around, trying to find him--but all she can see are men in armor, thrusting and swinging with their swords. Twice she nearly finds a sword in her side.

“Jeyne!”

“Theon!” she shouts.

And then she sees him, his hand outstretched. She reaches past the men, her hand finding his. He gives her one mighty tug, propelling her through the melee until she’s pressed against him. With one arm wrapped around her, the other holding his sword, he cuts a path to his horse. She clings to him, stunned at all that has happened in the last few moments. Is this really happening? Is he really here?

“Sansa...Rickon…” she starts to say.

“They’re safe. Stay close to me.” When they reach his horse, he boosts her up into the saddle before climbing on behind her.

“Pull back!” he shouts to his men, and with a lurch, the horse rears and sets off. Jeyne scrambles to grip the pommel of the saddle, but she need not worry; Theon’s arms are sure and strong around her. All around her is the sound of hooves pounding on the earth, carrying them far away from the godswood, Winterfell, and Ramsay Snow.

Jeyne looks up at Theon, his eyes glinting in the night. It occurs to her that he could have left her in the godswood; Ramsay would probably not have hurt her, she being the daughter of a lesser lord and a steward besides. But Theon had gone into the fray to pluck her out. Her, Jeyne Poole. 

“You saved me,” she says, awed.

He looks down at her, and something nearly like a smile touches his lips. He has never looked more handsome. 

.

They ride hard through the night, stopping near dawn because the horses are flecked with foam. Jeyne is exhausted from her second night in a row with no sleep; while the men water the horses and fill their waterskins, she lies down in the heather and sleeps. 

When she wakes, the sun is rising in the sky. Sansa is asleep beside her, and on her other side is Rickon, his head pillowed by Shaggydog’s stomach. At his feet sits Osha. 

Jeyne sits up, wincing at the slight headache. 

“Alright?”

She looks up and sees Theon. She takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. 

“Where are we?” 

“About a mile from Long Lake.”

North, then. “Are we going to the Wall?”

He takes a deep breath. “I had an idea.”

“Oh?”

“I think we should separate from the men. You, me, Rickon, Sansa, Osha.”

“What?” She stares at him. “Why would we do that? Ramsay is after us with six hundred men--”

“Exactly. We can’t hope to outrun him. But maybe we don’t have to.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, we travel west to Bear Island and send the men east to the Last Hearth. The Boltons will be following the hoard of Stark men; they’ll never suspect us to go off on our own on foot.”

There’s sense in what he says, but what he’s proposing is sheer lunacy. Abandon their guard of one hundred men on horse to walk all the way to Bear Island? 

“I know how it sounds,” he says, reading the look on her face. “But it will take a long time for the Boltons to realize we’re not with the men. That will buy us time, and we’ll need as much time as we can get to muster enough men to overthrow the Boltons and take back Winterfell.”

“We’re taking back Winterfell?” Rickon asks, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Sansa stirs beside him, blinking in the sunlight.

“Soon,” Theon promises him. “First we have to raise the troops...and before that, we have to ensure your safety. You’re the King in the North now.”

Rickon’s eyes widen. “What about Bran?”

“Bran disappeared and no one’s heard from him. We can’t wait for a king; we need one  _ now _ .” Sansa stands up, brushing off her skirt. “You have to be our king, Rickon.”

The other men fall silent, looking over at the boy. He looks at Sansa, who nods encouragingly. 

“You can do it, Rickon. I’ll be with you the whole way.” She takes his hand.

Slowly, Rickon nods. 

Theon unsheathes his sword, raising it high in the air. “The King in the North!”

The Stark men all raise their swords and chant, “The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!”

Sansa smiles down at her awestruck brother, and Jeyne can’t help smiling too. They’ve lost Robb and Winterfell, but they have not lost. Not yet.

  
  



	23. ARYA IV

It takes two weeks to get to the Eyrie. Arya savors every moment of those two weeks, riding as fast as her mother will let her with Grey Wind bounding by her side. The direwolf loves being free, his great pink tongue lolling out of his mouth when he looks up at Arya with gleaming eyes. He isn’t Nymeria, and she isn’t Robb, but they’ve enjoyed each other’s company. He’s at her side constantly, eating scraps from her hands and wrestling with her when they stop for a rest. Catelyn has even allowed the direwolf to sleep in their tent.

“Robb would still be alive if he’d kept Grey Wind with him,” she’d said. “Keep him with you whenever you can.”

Grey Wind isn’t their only protector; Lady Brienne travels with them, as well as a retinue of fifty men. Arya likes Brienne almost as much as Grey Wind; the woman warrior is taller and stronger than most men, and skilled with a blade. 

“I trained with the First Sword of Braavos,” Arya tells the woman when they ride together--out of Catelyn’s earshot. “My father hired him to teach me.”

“Then you must be very skilled, my lady,” Brienne says dutifully.

“I was...when I had Needle.”

“Needle?”

“My sword. My brother Jon had it made for me. It was just my size.” Arya’s voice turns regretful. “It was taken from me.”

“Well, we shall just have to find you a new sword, won’t we?” Brienne says with a smile. 

“My mother...doesn’t know.” 

“You should tell her. If your father found a teacher for you, it must have been his wish, and from what I know of your mother, your father’s wish would be hers as well.”

Brienne makes a good point, but Arya still hesitates to mention it to her mother. What if she disapproves? What if she says no? 

“I’ll speak with her,” Brienne continues. “Perhaps she would be willing to listen if it came from a woman who knows how to use a sword--and who’s pledged that sword to her service.”

“I hope you’re right,” Arya says fervently. She hesitates before asking the question that’s been burning on her lips ever since she met Brienne of Tarth. “Did your father...let you...be like this?”

“He...resisted, at first,” Brienne admits. “But he saw how much I loved it, and I was his only child, his only heir, so...he let me do it. Made sure I was properly trained so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself. And he gave me his blessing.” She glances at Arya. “Your mother will, too. These are dangerous times, my lady. Winter is coming, and we must all be prepared.”

.

Arya’s first glimpse of the Eyrie is when she’s raced ahead of the others, Grey Wind bounding at her side. She reins in her horse, breathing hard as she takes in the sight of the ancient fortress. They call the Eyrie impregnable; the only enemy that’s ever gotten to it was Visenya Targaryen on the back of Vhagar. 

Arya begins to understand why; the closer they get to the fortress, the more impossible it appears to access. They have to pass through a series of castles before they take mules, one at a time, up a narrow walkway. Even if an army did get through the Bloody Gate, there’s no way they could get this far without the Knights of the Vale tossing them into the chasm below.

“Is it true about the Moon Door?” Arya asks the girl leading her mule, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl called Mya. 

“It’s true, my lady. Our little Lord Robin is...fond of the Moon Door.”

“Fond of it?”

Mya hesitates. “He likes to...make people ‘fly’, as he calls it.”

Arya’s stomach plummets. Is her cousin another Joffrey in the making? 

.

An oversized bucket carries Arya up to the castle--the final step in ensuring that no enemy will ever come unwanted into the Eyrie. Her mother is waiting at the top, and she wraps her arm around Arya’s slim shoulders when the girl climbs out. 

“Mind your manners,” she murmurs into Arya’s hair. “And whatever you do...don’t stare.”

Before Arya can ask her mother what she means, an attendant is ushering them into a great chamber.

It’s not the largest Arya’s ever seen, but it is imposing. The ceiling stretches impossibly high, and against the back wall is a throne carved from a tree. A winding staircase leads up to the throne and then rises above the dais, leading all the way up to a high chamber. High windows fill the room with a chilly breeze, and on the floor is what looks like a well, encircled by stone benches.

All of this goes unnoticed by Arya, who cannot take her eyes off the sight of the woman sitting on the throne--or the boy suckling at her breast. 

He’s much too old to be suckling at his mother’s breast; long legs drape over his mother’s lap, and Arya has a feeling that he’s as tall as she is.

Catelyn gives her shoulder a small shake, and Arya averts her eyes. 

“Robin!” Lysa Arryn coos. “Say hello to your aunt and your cousin!”

The boy’s lips come free with a wet sound; he sits up, wiping his mouth. “Hello, Aunt Catelyn.”

“Hello, Robin,” Catelyn says politely. “This is your cousin, Arya.”

“She looks like a Stark,” Lysa says. 

Arya doesn’t know if her aunt means this as a compliment or not. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aunt Lysa. And you, Cousin Robin,” she says as courteously as she knows how.

“And you.” Lysa rises, tucking her breast back into her dress. “What brings you here, sister?”

“War.” Catelyn folds her hands in front of her. “We have been at war with the Lannisters for some time now, Lysa. Edmure--”

The door opens behind them, and in strides a most unexpected visitor: Littlefinger. 

“You!” Catelyn cries out, looking angry. Arya wonders at her mother’s reaction; when she first met Littlefinger, he introduced himself as an old friend of Catelyn’s. What has changed?

He bows. “Cat. You ought to congratulate me.”

“Congratulate you?” Catelyn spits. 

“Yes.” Lysa descends the steps. “Petyr and I are married.”

Catelyn’s face is red with fury. “Married?!”

Littlefinger meets Lysa at the bottom of the steps, where she links her arm with his. “We’ve been in love for some time. And now that we’re married, he’s Lord Protector of the Vale--until Robin comes of age, of course.”

Arya is awed at the rage simmering beneath her mother’s skin. 

“You were saying, sister?” Lysa asks in a voice as sweet as poison. “Something about war?”

“Yes.” Catelyn swallows, regaining some measure of calm. “Robb is dead. Killed by the Boltons. And now they’ve taken some of the other houses and returned north. I believe they are in league with the Lannisters.”

“They are,” Littlefinger says with almost lazy calm. “Tywin Lannister has promised Roose Bolton wardenship of the North if he bends the knee. No doubt he’s gone to claim Winterfell.”

“Sansa and Rickon are there!” Catelyn exclaims. “Rickon is King in the North with Robb dead!”

“I’m sorry for your loss, sister,” Lysa says coolly. “And for the loss of your husband. He was like a son to Jon. But the Lannisters are dangerous, and I will not risk meeting them on the battlefield.”

“You will risk  _ nothing _ if you continue to hide up here!” Catelyn hisses. 

“And which of us will be standing at the end of this war?” Lysa demands. “I only have one son, Cat, and I will not risk his life so one of yours can wear a crown.”

“Then you have forgotten the Tully motto,” Catelyn says crisply. “Edmure hasn’t--he’s sworn fealty to the King in the North.”

“You gave him no other choice.”

“I am giving  _ you _ a choice: help your family, or lose your brother and sister forever.”

Lysa shares a glance with Littlefinger. “Robin,” she calls sweetly. “Show your cousin Arya to her room. This conversation is not for children.”

Arya looks up at Catelyn, who gives a short, tight nod. Arya allows the milk-breathed Robin to lead her from the chamber, trying to contain her disgust at his clammy hand grasping hers. 

“I’m sorry about your brother,” he says in the careless voice of one used to reciting meaningless courtesies. 

“Thank you.” She hesitates. “Robin...will your mother help my mother? Defeat the Lannisters?”

“Mother says it’s dangerous outside the Eyrie.”

“Yes, but she won’t have to leave the Eyrie.”

“We have many enemies; we have to keep our knights close.”

“But--”

“Stop talking about it!” he shouts suddenly, whirling on her. “I don’t want to talk about your dumb war!”

Arya blinks at him, shocked.

Robin turns around again and stalks down the hall. 

Arya trips after him, dismayed. Getting her aunt’s help is going to be harder than she thought.

.

Catelyn comes to Arya some time later. Arya’s been lying in bed, stroking Grey Wind’s fur, but she sits up at the sight of her mother. 

“Is Aunt Lysa going to help us?”

“I don’t know,” Catelyn admits. “Once, she would have helped us without a thought, but now…” She shakes her head. “She’s changed so much. Oddly, I think Littlefinger is our greatest advocate.”

“Why are you angry with him?” Arya asks, watching as her mother sits on the bed beside her. 

Catelyn sighs. “He’s done...so much ill. To your father. To Jeyne Poole. To me.”

“What did he do to Father and Jeyne Poole?” Arya asks, intrigued.

“He did nothing to prevent your father’s death even when it was within his power. And as for Jeyne…” She shakes her head. “He did unspeakable things to that child.”

This is new information to Arya, whose eyes widen. “And now he’s married to Aunt Lysa?”

“Now he’s married to Aunt Lysa,” Catelyn confirms, sounding weary.

“Why?”

“Lysa has always been fond of Littlefinger--too fond to realize that he only married her to become Lord Protector of the Vale. Now, he’ll rule until Robin is old enough--which will take longer and longer under Littlefinger’s watch.”

Arya absorbs this. “So...what do we do?”

Catelyn sighs again. “We wait. Littlefinger seems open to aiding the North, but Lysa is against it; we must give him time to talk her into it.”

“Why would he help the North?”

“Because...I believe he still has feelings for me,” Catelyn admits. 

“But he’s married to Aunt Lysa.”

“Because he wants the Vale--not because he loves her.”

Arya feels suddenly sad for her aunt. Imagine being too in love with someone to realize they’re only in love with your title--not you.

“So...he’s a bad person, and he’s the reason Father is dead and bad things happened to Jeyne Poole, but we need his help?”

“Yes.”

“Seven hells.” 


	24. SANSA VII

While the Stark men take the kingsroad northeast to the Last Hearth, Sansa, Jeyne, Rickon, Theon, Osha, and Shaggydog head west. If Theon is right, Deepwood Motte should be abandoned, so they’ll have no trouble getting to Bear Island. 

And if he isn’t…

Well. They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

Sansa had been unsure of Theon’s plan at first, but when she thought of what would happen if Ramsay captured them, if he captured  _ her _ ...she’d changed her mind quick enough.

The men had been a little more reluctant.

“What about the king?” one of them had asked. “Who will protect him?”

Theon had only smiled. “He’ll have a direwolf, a wildling, and a Greyjoy protecting him; he’ll be safe.”

And indeed, it’s been three days and still no sign of any pursuers. The wolfswood is dark and deep, and the only other beings they ever hear are the wolves baying in the distance. 

“They won’t come near us,” Osha says wisely. “Not with him around.” She nods at Shaggydog, who’s eating his second rabbit of the evening. It won’t be his last, either. The wolf grows a little more every day, strange as that seems.

“Let’s just hope the Boltons keep their distance, too,” Sansa murmurs, picking at her own rabbit. 

Everyone falls quiet. They don’t need to imagine what will happen if Ramsay catches onto their plan.

“We’ll reach the sea tomorrow,” Theon assures her. “And then we’ll take a boat to Bear Island. They’ll never bring six hundred men across, even if they do figure out where we went.”

“What if they do figure it out, though?” Rickon pipes up. “What if they come after us?”

“Those Mormonts are tough,” Theon says with a smile. “The ironborn used to raid the island, years ago, but the women of Bear Island armed themselves and learned to fight so they wouldn’t be carried off or killed. They’re tough--and loyal. Have no fear, Your Grace; you’ll be in good hands with the Mormonts.”

Rickon looks relieved, but Sansa can’t help thinking that the bite of the ironborn is nothing compared to the full fury of Roose Bolton and the Lannisters.

.

Sansa wakes to a twanging sound. She rolls onto her side and rubs her eyes, which grow only more irritated by the smoke coming from the campfire. Osha has big, fat mushrooms on a spit, turning them this way and that so as to roast them. Rickon and Shaggydog sit nearby, watching as Theon gives Jeyne an archery lesson. He guides her hands and corrects her posture, and though Jeyne stares at the target, Sansa can detect a blush on her friend’s cheeks. 

“Relax your bow arm,” Theon instructs. “And don’t think too hard.”

“That seems counterintuitive,” she protests, but she closes her eyes and lets out a breath. 

“Don’t aim your arrow; let your eye do the aiming.”

The arrow releases from the bow with a  _ whish _ before landing neatly in the crude target Theon had constructed. It lands very near the bullseye, and Sansa joins Rickon and Theon in applauding when Jeyne lowers the bow, looking pleased. 

“You did well,” Theon praises, collecting the fallen arrows. “You’ll do better with practice, and you’ll get plenty of it under Maege Mormont’s care.”

“Won’t you be there to teach me?” Jeyne asks, valiantly fighting off a blush.

Theon hesitates. “There’s a lot of work to do. We have to rally the Northern forces before Roose Bolton can take anymore houses to his side and take back Winterfell.”

“So as soon as you take us to Bear Island, you’re going to leave us?” Jeyne asks accusingly.

“I’m going to serve my king,” he corrects. 

Sansa accepts a mushroom from Osha, carefully wrapped in leaves so it won’t burn her hands. “Do you think my mother knows about Winterfell?”

“If she doesn’t, she soon will.”

“What if she thinks we’re dead?”

“Maester Luwin was the one who told me Ramsay Snow took the castle; I’m sure he’ll get a message to her as well,” Theon soothes. 

Sansa looks up. She’d nearly forgotten why Theon hadn’t been at Winterfell in the first place. “How did it go? With your sister?”

His face takes on a bitter shadow. “Well, she’s not at Deepwood Motte anymore...though that’s not my doing. My father died. Asha sailed back to Pyke to claim the driftwood crown as her own.”

This surprises Sansa. “Oh.”

“We can worry about her later.”

“Theon...I’m sorry about your father.”

He shakes his head, eyes on the ground. “I’m not. He didn’t care that the penalty for another failed uprising was my head. Why should I care what happens to him?”

“He’s still your father,” Sansa says quietly.

“Your father was more of a father to me than my own.” He nudges one of the logs, stifling the fire. “Let’s speak no more of Balon Greyjoy.”

They don’t, heads bowed as they tuck in to their breakfast. But Sansa can’t help thinking that it must be hard for Theon, to lose two homes and two fathers. 

.

By midday, Sansa knows they’re near the ocean; she can smell the salt in the air, can hear the gulls wheeling overhead, can feel the icy wind. When they finally make it out of the Wolfswood, they can see the blue-grey sea on the horizon. 

Theon has them wait by the woods.

“As soon as they see Shaggydog, they’ll know who we are,” he explains when Rickon protests. “Lay low until I say.”

Sansa draws an impatient Rickon into her lap, running her fingers through his tangle of red hair and trying to comb it.

“You’re hurting,” he protests.

“You look like a wildling. I mean,” she amends hastily, remembering Osha, “you look…”

“Aye, he does look like a wildling,” Osha says with a smile. “Not at all like a king.”

That makes Rickon stop fidgeting. 

Sansa works her fingers through his hair, smoothing it into something presentable. By the time she’s finished, Theon is headed back their way.

“There’s a man with a ketch headed to the island,” he says. “He’s agreed to take us across.”

“Do you trust him?” Sansa asks, not letting go of Rickon.

Theon hesitates. “I told him there would be a wolf...he seemed to understand.”

“What if it’s a trap?” she presses. “What if he takes us across and then tells the Boltons?”

“Asha won’t have left Deepwood Motte unguarded; there’ll be ironborn there, and once a king--or queen--is chosen, they’ll return. Even if the Boltons did manage to get ahold of their own fleet, they’d have to get through the ironborn first.”

That is a comfort to Sansa--though a small one. 

“And besides,” Rickon pipes up, “the Mormonts can turn into  _ bears _ .”

“Where did you hear that, little king?” Osha asks with a smile.

“Old Nan told me,” he says with wide-eyed sincerity.

.

The meaty-armed captain who takes them across says nothing about his unusual passengers, let alone their direwolf, but he bows deeply when they leave him and offers Rickon a smile. Sansa wants to trust him, but she’s learned the hard way that not everyone is as trustworthy as they look. 

It’s nightfall by the time they make it to Mormont Keep. Sansa’s efforts to comb Rickon’s hair were fruitless; the wind from the bay tangled it again, and he looks like a little wildling once more. Thank the gods, she thinks, he has Shaggydog, who will prove who he is better than any mop of hair.

Maege Mormont and most of her daughters marched south with Robb, and in their absence the island is ruled by her youngest daughter, Lyanna. The nine-year-old girl sits primly in her seat in the great hall, watching her visitors enter with interest. 

“Lady Lyanna.” Sansa dips into a curtsy. “Thank you for receiving us.”

“It’s true, then,” the girl says, in a voice that’s somehow bigger than she is. “Rickon Stark has come to Bear Island.”

“ _ King _ Rickon,” Sansa corrects. 

“King Robb is truly dead, then?” At Sansa’s nod, little Lyanna pushes back her chair, walks around the table, and kneels before Rickon. “Bear Island is yours, Your Grace.”

The other retainers in the hall also kneel, heads bowed before the boy king.

Rickon looks up in surprise at Sansa, who nods encouragingly. 

“Thank you. Er, rise,” he says uncertainly.

Lyanna does, the other Bear Islanders following her example. 

“We’ve come to beg your hospitality, my lady,” Sansa says. “The Boltons have allied with the Lannisters; they’ve taken Winterfell and named themselves Wardens of the North. We believe they are the ones who killed King Robb.”

“All the force of Bear Island is with my mother. I will write to her and ask her to send her forces north.”

“That is kind of you, my lady,” Theon says. “But more than her forces, we desire you to shelter our king while we raise the Northern army.”

“You have my word, King Rickon shall be safe here,” Lyanna assures them all. “Will you take bread and salt with me?”

“We will, my lady.”

The traditional bread and salt, an ancient promise of safety and hospitality, helps soothe Sansa’s frayed nerves. She never mistrusted the Mormonts, knowing that of the Northern houses, they are among the most loyal, but the public promise of a safe haven makes her able to relax for the first time since they returned North. 

Lady Lyanna feasts them that night, providing all manner of roast meats and stewed vegetables and even sugared sweetmeats. The ale, which is a bit too hardy for Sansa’s taste, is still good, and after a cup of it, Lyanna stands up and raises her goblet.

“To the King in the North!” she cries. “Winter is Coming--and Here We Stand!”

The room explodes in cheers at the combined Stark and Mormont mottos. Someone starts up with “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” and the room is soon a cacophony of hands pounding on tables and men with bellies full of ale singing at the top of their lungs. Dancing begins, and though Sansa is tired, even she cannot resist when a household guard asks for a round. It’s a fast dance, one where Sansa is lifted off her feet and handed off to different partners in the blink of an eye, and she finds herself laughing with exhaustion when the song finally ends. She applauds with the others, looking up at the high table. Rickon has an enormous grin on his face, and even Jeyne is looking merrier than she has in some time. It’s not home, not by a mile, but it will serve.

_Yes,_ Sansa thinks. _Winter is Coming--and_ _Here We Stand._


	25. ARYA V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, this chapter is really short, but...I think you'll understand why when you get to the end.

Arya wakes early in the morning when she feels her mother stirring beside her. 

“No-no, you stay,” Catelyn murmurs into her hair. “Sleep a while.”

Comfortable in her warm bed, Arya burrows deeper into the furs and sleeps. Dimly, she becomes aware of Grey Wind hopping onto the bed beside her, curling his body around hers. 

.

When she wakes again, Grey Wind is whining to be let out. She puts on shoes and a dressing gown before opening the door, one hand at his collar to keep him close. She knows there’s a courtyard somewhere around here, and failing that, perhaps the kennels--

Raised voices from down the corridor make Grey Wind’s ears prick up. Girl and wolf pad silently towards the source of the voices.

“...he is my son!”

“I understand, Cat, and I wish there was more I could do, only--”

“Only what?”

The corridor curves, and when Arya rounds the curve, she realizes that they’re overlooking the great hall. Her mother and Littlefinger are standing in its center, her mother holding a raven’s scroll. Neither of them notice the eavesdroppers.

Littlefinger holds up placating hands. “It’s not as simple as you’re making it out to be.”

“The Boltons have taken Winterfell! They’ve killed my son, and they will kill another son if we don’t act! Maester Luwin writes that Roose Bolton’s bastard tried to marry Sansa--imagine what would have happened if she hadn’t escaped! They say he let his first wife starve to death, they say he--”

“Yes, Cat, I’ve heard the rumors.” He reaches for her. “But she’s safe--”

Catelyn jerks away from him. “Don’t touch me!” she hisses. “I should’ve killed you in Renly’s camp!”

“Cat--”

“My husband is dead and you did nothing to stop it!” she shouts. “You took a  _ child _ and let men rape her over and over! You are  _ nothing _ like the boy I once knew!”

“What is going on here?” Lysa’s shrill voice carries across the chamber, and both Catelyn and Littlefinger whirl to look at her. Arya sucks in a breath, fingers tightening in Grey Wind’s fur.

Catelyn raises the raven’s scroll. “The Boltons have taken Winterfell, Lysa, my  _ home _ . They have taken Winterfell and tried to marry my daughter and kill my son. You must send the knights north, we must take back Winterfell--”

“I  _ must _ do nothing,” Lysa says in a chilly tone. “Especially not for the sister who’s  _ sneaking around _ with my  _ husband _ !”

Arya’s mouth falls open.

“I am not  _ sneaking around _ with your  _ husband _ ,” Catelyn hisses. “You dare accuse me of flirting with my sister’s husband, a man responsible for the death of my own husband?”

Lysa storms over to the side, out of Arya’s eyesight. There’s a heavy grinding sound, and a moment later, what Arya once thought to be a well parts slowly.

A door, and one that goes down, down, endlessly down.

“Lysa, you are mad!” Catelyn shouts, but there is terror in her voice.

“Am I, dear sister?” Lysa marches towards them, chest heaving. “I’ve worked for this. For nearly twenty years, I’ve worked for this. I tended Petyr’s wounds after he fought Brandon Stark, did you know? I conceived a child, and our father gave me tansy tea to bleed it out of me.” Her voice starts to tremble. “I would’ve had a son of an age with your Robb. He would’ve been a handsome boy, and strong. But our father poisoned my womb, and after he forced me to marry Jon, Robin was the only child that ever survived the birthing bed.”

“Lysa…” Catelyn says, face pale.

“I killed Jon.”

“Lysa!” Littlefinger shouts, but she goes on, flushed with victory.

“I poisoned him, and led you to believe it was the Lannisters. All so Petyr and I could finally,  _ finally _ be together. And here you come, marching in with your self-righteous fury, trying to break the peace of  _ my _ home!”

“Lysa, you are my sister!” Catelyn says, voice cracking. “Family, Duty, Honor. Those are our house words! Have you forgotten them?”

“Petyr is my family now,” she says coolly. “And Robin. I’m a Tully no longer. And you...you are no longer my sister.” She starts for Catelyn, who shrieks and backs away. 

Littlefinger grabs Lysa, shushing her as she bursts into tears. 

“Do you still love her?” she demands of him, looking and sounding just like her son in that moment.

“I have only ever loved one woman,” Littlefinger says softly.

Lysa’s face breaks into a smile. “Only one? Oh, Petyr, do you swear it? Only one?”

He nods. “Only Cat.”

And with that, he pushes Lysa through the Moon Door.


	26. THEON VIII

After a week on Bear Island, Theon sails for the Neck with fifty Mormont men, courtesy of little Lady Lyanna. He’ll appeal to Howland Reed to take back Moat Cailin and defend the Neck from any Boltons or Lannisters, then move north to White Harbor for support from the Manderlys.  He may even get as far as Hornwood, though that’s a gamble; Ramsay Snow is technically Lord Hornwood now, but everyone knows the marriage that gave him that title was forced, and his treatment of Lady Hornwood has done nothing to win the love of her people. Still, if they fear him enough, they might hesitate to join any opposition to the Boltons.

Truth be told, some part of Theon can’t help wondering if this is a fool’s errand he’s made for himself. How many of the Northmen will side with Roose Bolton? They’re more loyal than southerners, less inclined to change their allegiance because of power or gold. But the Starks to whom they pledged allegiance are dwindling in number; Ned Stark is dead, Robb is dead, Bran is missing, Sansa and Rickon are hidden away, and all that’s left are Lady Catelyn and Arya. What if the Northmen choose the Boltons by virtue of a strong patriarch whose son has been promised legitimization by the crown? A son who’s proven himself by taking Hornwood and Winterfell, not hiding away in his sister’s skirts.

The Mormonts are loyal, if nothing else. And Robb earned the respect of the Greatjon, who even went so far as to name him king. Howland Reed fought with Ned Stark years ago and may come to his son’s aid, but the crannogmen haven’t shown their faces yet and may not now.

They may have to withdraw their troops from the Riverlands if they mean to take back Winterfell. Of course, that would leave Stannis fighting the Lannisters alone, and if they defeat him on the battlefield, the North may have to fight this war without his help.

He wishes, not for the first time, nor for the last, that Robb was alive. They might be marching on King’s Landing now if Roose Bolton hadn’t gotten a taste of power from the Lannisters. Robb and his little queen could be sitting side by side in Winterfell, she with a prince growing in her belly and little Rickon not having to take on the responsibility of being king or even Lord of Winterfell. All the Starks might be home in Winterfell, happy and safe. And Theon might be with them, happy and in the home that he chose.

.

They’ve barely passed the Rills when the cabin boy wakes Theon from his sleep.

“Ships at the mouth of Blazewater Bay, milord,” he says, his eyes wide in the candlelight. “They’re flying the kraken.”

Theon sits up, wakened by the blood coursing through his veins. Asha? Or one of his uncles?

“Captain wants to sail around Cape Kraken.”

“And put us closer to the Iron Islands?” Not that meeting the ironborn at the mouth of the bay head-on is a much better plan...but what else can they do?

They could send an envoy bearing a white flag and plead with the ironborn. Theon could go himself, try to reason with whichever of his kin is heading that fleet. He might have a chance if it’s Asha. Even Victarion might let his nephew pass, or at least escape with his life.

But Euron…

Well. There’s no telling with Euron.

But what else can they do? If they sail around Cape Kraken, they risk running into more ironborn. If they sail back to Bear Island, Theon will have failed in his mission and they’ll have to start from scratch.

“My lord?”

“Give me a moment to dress,” he says, pushing back the covers.

The boy leaves him, and Theon staggers to the side table to splash water on his face.

What is he going to do?

He dresses slowly, hoping a solution will present itself, but nothing does. He drags himself up to the deck, where the other men stand, watching him and waiting.

He counts four ships--not a large number by any means, but it still certainly outnumbers his one ship and fifty men.

“Is the _Silence_ among them?” he asks, hoping his mad uncle his not among them.

“No, my lord, but the far-eyes saw the _Black Wind_.”

His shoulders nearly sag in relief. _Black Wind_ is his sister’s ship. She must be back from the kingsmoot. And if she’s back, she probably wasn’t made queen, which means she’s either serving the new king, or…

“Ready one of the boats,” he orders. “I’m going to talk with them.”

The men exchange dark looks, but they ready one of the boats and lower it into the water. Two of them clamber down the rope ladder before Theon.

“My lord?” one of the men asks, peering over the side. “What should we do if...if you do not return?”

“Don’t get caught,” he throws back. Looking at the men at the oars, he says, “Take me to the _Black Wind_.”

The two men pull on the oars, silent as they push themselves across the inky black water. Theon watches his sister’s ships grow bigger and bigger until a far-eyes demands to know their business.

“I’m Theon Greyjoy,” he calls, standing up. “This is my sister’s ship, is it not?”

“It is,” comes a voice he recognizes. Asha leans over the side of her ship. “We meet again, little brother.”

“Can I come up?” he asks.

“You can.” She signals to her men, who throw down a rope ladder. One of Theon’s men holds it steady as he climbs up, heart pounding in his chest. Asha herself gives him a hand over. “You know, when you were a boy, you used to follow me everywhere. Not much has changed, has it?”

“I didn’t know I would find you here,” he says honestly.

“I had not thought to be here.” She jerks her head. “Come into my cabin, have a drink.”

Theon follows her wordlessly into her cabin. It’s a spacious room, decorated with silks and trinkets from around the world. This room is her home, he realizes, perhaps more so than her room in Pyke ever was.

She pours them both cups of ale. “So what brings you to Blazewater Bay, little brother?”

“Rallying men to take back Winterfell.”

“You lost it?” she asks with some amusement.

“The Boltons took it while I was treating with you.”

She bows her head. “Then we both know what it is to lose something that is rightfully ours.”

He accepts a cup from her. “I take it you were not successful at the kingsmoot?”

“No. I might have been, were it not for our cursed uncle.”

“Victarion?”

“Euron,” she corrects. “He mysteriously appeared the day after our father died, but I suspect he was there before then and pushed our father off the bridge from whence he ‘fell’.”

“And they made him king?” he asks, surprised. He doesn’t remember much of his uncle, truth be told; he had always been off on some adventure, and when he was home, he’d had little interest in his brother’s brats. Still, Theon has heard enough to know that Euron is not particularly sane, or fit for leadership. And yet…

“They did.” She takes a long swallow of ale. “It was an embarrassment, Theon. I nearly had them, and then he turned up with his false promises and sweet words. I took my men and left before he could send me to join Father.”

“You think he’d kill you?”

“You don’t know what he’s like, Theon.” She plants her hands on the table, leaning forward. “He tormented our uncles when they were children. I don’t mean bullied them the way big brothers do, I mean he _tormented_ them. He raped Victarion’s wife. He killed our father. There’s even talk that he killed Harlon and Robin.”

“Harlon died of greyscale,” Theon says, but his blood is chilled.

“He had greyscale, but he died of suffocation,” she corrects. “He’s a cruel man, Theon, and he’d kill me without a second thought if it meant no one left to challenge his throne. Hell, he might kill me just for sport.”

Theon considers her words, swirling his ale in his cup. “So what will you do?”

She straightens up. “That depends on you, little brother.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Me?”

“Aye. You serve the King in the North. Robb Stark is a man who wanted to free himself from the yoke of an unjust king; I want the same.”

Theon considers his sister. “You want to be free of Euron?”

“I want to be free of Euron...and free of the reign of any king or queen. I want to be Queen of the Iron Islands.”

“What does this have to do with me?” he asks, taking a seat.

She sits on the table, resting her elbows on her spread legs. She acts like a man, he thinks. Oddly, he finds it endearing.

“You need to take back Winterfell. I need to take back the Iron Islands. If my men help you take back Winterfell and restore your king to his seat, I want him to help me overthrow Euron and acknowledge me as Queen of the Iron Islands.”

Theon leans back in his seat, considering this. By rights, the Iron Islands belong to the North...but what loss would they be? They’re a small cluster of islands that contribute nothing to the wealth of the North. Indeed, they’re fast becoming a drain on resources; if the North has to keep sending troops to put down their rebellions, they’ll only lose men. But if they acknowledge their sovereignty, they’ll have aid in retaking the North.

“I can ask my king on your behalf,” he allows. “But I can promise nothing.”

She bows her head. “That’s all I ask, little brother.”

He sips his ale. “How would you help, anyway? You’ve only got four ships. That’s what, four hundred men?”

“Two hundred,” she admits grimly.

Theon makes a noise of shocked amusement. “Two hundred?”

“It isn’t much,” she acknowledges. “But it’s four times as many men as you currently have.”

And, well, she has him there.

“You need me, little brother,” she says. “I was unkind to you before. You were right to feel the way you did. Our father gave up on you, but he should not have. You were taken by the Starks because of his own deeds, and they were kinder to you than most would have been. Of course they’re your family. But Theon...let me be your family again.” She extends her hand.

He hesitates before gripping her wrist, her fingers closing around his own wrist. “Don’t let me down, Asha.”

"Never."


	27. ARYA VI

It takes two weeks to gather the lords of the Vale at the Eyrie. In the meantime, Catelyn orders Littlefinger be held in the sky cells.

He’d protested something fiercely when the guards had come running. He’d insisted he hadn’t pushed Lysa, that she’d jumped herself. It was only because Arya came out of her hiding spot and admitted to what she saw that the guards seized Littlefinger and locked him away. She’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he realized she’d seen everything--and heard it, too.

Arya has no idea what to make of her aunt’s confession. Despite the fact that she killed her husband and seemed ready to kill her own sister, Arya can’t help but feel sorry for her. She was a woman maddened with grief at the circumstances in her life; she spent twenty years trying to marry the boy she loved, and when she finally had him, he pushed her out the Moon Door. Twenty years, wasted on someone who would never love her, who only wanted her for her title. How had she not seen?

Is love like that, she wonders? To blind you so much that you don’t know when you’re being ill-used? 

She asks her mother this very question one night when they lie in their bed. 

“The wrong kind of love will do that to you,” Catelyn acknowledges, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I don’t think it was Littlefinger Lysa loved as much as...the idea of him.”

“The idea of him?”

“He was in love with me during our childhood. He was always chasing after me, trying to steal kisses. He wasn’t interested in Lysa, and I think that stung her. It was less about loving him and more about getting what she couldn’t have. You know that I was engaged to your uncle Brandon before I married your father?”

Arya nods. She’s heard the story; her mother was promised to Brandon Stark, but he was killed by the Mad King, so his younger brother, the new heir to Winterfell, wed her in his place. 

“Littlefinger challenged Brandon to a duel for my hand. He made a fool of himself; Brandon cut him from neck to navel. He would have killed him had I not begged for Brandon to take pity on him. He was just a boy, and like Lysa, he was in love with what he couldn’t have. I thought he would stop loving me with time, but...I was wrong. He let your father be killed so that he could have me.”

Arya’s eyes suddenly sting with tears. “I hate him,” she declares passionately. “We should push him through the Moon Door.”

“We will let the lords of the Vale determine what to do with him,” her mother says firmly. “Robin is their liege lord, and Littlefinger is Robin’s guardian.”

“What about you?” 

“What about me?”

“You’re Robin’s aunt, and his kin by blood; Littlefinger was only married to Aunt Lysa for a little while,” Arya points out. “You should be regent until Robin comes of age.”

“I do not think the lords of the Vale would accept that,” Catelyn says wryly. “Besides, I have my own children to worry about; I do not have time to rule the Vale until Robin comes of age.”

The boy has been inconsolable since the death of his mother. He weeps until he makes himself sick, shaking in that horrible way of his. The maester gives him sweetsleep, but only a little; too much and Robin will die. Catelyn sits with her nephew when she can, but Arya can see her mother’s patience being tested whenever Robin reaches for her breasts, seeking the comfort of mother’s milk. 

“You must not do that, sweetrobin,” Catelyn chides in a voice of strained kindness. “I am not your mother, and besides, you are Lord of the Vale; you are too old to drink mother’s milk.”

“I want my mother!” he’ll sob, and then he’ll cry and shake until the spell passes. 

“Who will rule the Vale, then?” Arya asks now, thinking about her sickly little cousin.

“One of the lords. Most of them are related to the Arryns in some way or another; no doubt whoever is his closest kin will take that responsibility.”

“Do you think he’ll die?”

Catelyn is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she allows at last. “I had thought this sickness the result of his mother’s death, but the maester tells me he has been unwell all his life. It doesn’t help that Lysa coddled the child and sheltered him from the world for so long.”

Arya considers this. “Who will rule if he dies, then?”

“Let’s not dwell on that now,” her mother says, firm once more. “He’s alive and in no danger of death for now, and we must be thankful for that. I have had a raven from Lord Royce, and we should expect him tomorrow. He is an old friend of your father’s; you must be kind to him, and above all, you must tell him the truth of what happened when he asks.”

“I will,” Arya promises. 

.

Lord Royce does arrive the next day. She met him once before, when he was accompanying his son to the Wall and stopped for a few nights in Winterfell. She’d only been a little child then, but she remembers the man’s great stature, his booming voice and the air of command he has about him. 

“Lady Stark,” he rumbles as soon as he arrives, stooping low to kiss Catelyn’s hand. “I am so sorry for your loss. I knew your husband well when he fostered at the Eyrie; a more honorable man I have never met. And now the loss of your son and your sister...terrible.”

“Thank you, Lord Royce,” Catelyn says kindly. “I am glad you’re here; my husband respected you a great deal, as did Lord Arryn. The matter of what to do with Lord Baelish…”

“I never liked him,” Lord Royce says bluntly. “Grubby little man who felt that because he handled the king’s coin, he was fit to rule the Vale.”

“He used my sister poorly,” Catelyn agrees. “And would have used her son just as poorly if he’d had the opportunity.”

“Detestable man,” Lord Royce sniffs. His eyes catch sight of Arya. “Your daughter, my lady?”

Arya curtsies. 

“My youngest girl, Arya,” Catelyn introduces.

“She has the look of a Stark,” he says, and something like a smile flickers across his face. “You have your father’s eyes, Lady Arya.”

Arya does smile at that. “Thank you, Lord Royce.”

“But where is his lordship?” Lord Royce asks, looking around. 

“My nephew is...unwell,” Catelyn says delicately. “He is much grieved over his mother’s passing. The maester has urged him to rest as much as possible.”

“He’s always been unwell,” Lord Royce says in that blunt way of his. “Infirm in body as well as mind.”

“This is true,” Catelyn agrees. “And that is why it is vital we find a proper guardian for him once we have dealt with Lord Baelish.”

Lord Royce looks surprised. “Forgive me, Lady Stark, but I had assumed you would be taking the boy under your care, as you are his closest kin.”

“Under normal circumstances, I would,” Catelyn concedes. “But my own son needs me in the North. I cannot care for him from the Vale, nor can I care for Robin from the North.”

Lord Royce bows his head. “I understand, my lady. But...if I may be so bold as to suggest...your sister had many suitors, all eager to rule the Vale. They will be clamoring to take the regency again. But if  _ you _ were to assume the regency and appoint a guardian for your nephew while you returned North, there would be no danger of these greedy little lords fighting for power. It would also mean the Knights of the Vale would be at your disposal.”

Arya stares up at the man. Is he suggesting her mother take the Knights of the Vale for herself?

“I know you came to the Vale for your sister’s aid in retaking the North,” Lord Royce continues. “I cannot speak for everyone, but I know that Lady Waynwood and myself are among those who respect your family; Ned Stark was a good man, and we take pride in the years he spent at the Eyrie. If another lord takes the regency, I cannot guarantee the aid of the Vale.”

Catelyn considers the man before her. “You are kind, Lord Royce, and I know that my husband would be honored by your frankness. I will consider what you have said. My first consideration, however, must be seeing justice is served to my sister’s murderer.”

He bows his head again. “Of course, my lady. We are all eager to see justice served.”

.

Five other lords arrive in the next few days; Lord Gilwood Hunter, Lord Horton Redfort, Lord Benedar Belmore, Ser Symond Templeton, and Lady Anya Waynwood. All of them seem to have one thing in common: they hate Littlefinger.

When all six of the lords have arrived, they gather in the throne room, standing on the dais before the throne. Catelyn and Arya stand on the steps, watching as guards bring Littlefinger into the room.

He looks terrible. His beard is rough and patchy, his hair uncombed and greasy. His clothes are rumpled and dirty from sleeping on the floor, and under his eyes are dark circles. 

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” Lady Waynwood says in an authoritative voice. Then again, everything she does is with an authoritative voice. “You are accused of murdering Lysa Arryn. How do you plead?”

Littlefinger looks straight at Lady Waynwood. “Guilty.”

Arya cannot help feeling surprised. Though there are two witnesses to Littlefinger’s deed and the entire council is against him, she had expected him to plead innocent and lie. Is this some trick?

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Lady Waynwood asks sharply. 

Littlefinger clasps his hands in front of him. “All I did, I did for love.”

“You admitted you did not love Lysa,” Catelyn reminds him.

He bows his head. “It is true, I did not. At least, I was not  _ in _ love with her. If anything, she was like a sister to me. We grew up together--you remember, Lady Catelyn. Even though I was not in love with her, I still cared for her. I cared, too, for her son. I have no children of my own, and am not like to; Robin is the closest thing I have to a child. I was fond of him from the beginning, looking upon him as a nephew. I wanted, dearly, to take care of him. When I proposed marriage to Lysa, I thought only of being a father to her son. I knew Lysa loved me, and I felt ashamed that I could not love her back, but I knew I would not misuse her, like so many lords who sought her hand.”

“Murder is not misusing then, is it?” snaps Lord Redfort.

Littlefinger holds up placating hands. “I had no intention to kill Lysa that day, but as soon as she entered the room, I knew her madness was upon her. You all have seen it, my lords and ladies; Lysa’s mind is not what it used to be. She tried to push her own sister through the Moon Door.”

The lords look to Catelyn, who nods uneasily.

“She accused Lady Catelyn and I of having a flirtation, an accusation with no ground. She was overcome with jealousy. I saw that if I did not act, she would kill her sister. I did what I had to do to save Lady Catelyn’s life.”

“Your silver tongue seems to have lost its shine, Lord Baelish,” Lady Waynwood says crisply. “That was a paltry defense for an indefensible action. My Ladies Stark, what have you to say to this explanation?”

Catelyn is rigid. “I say that it is a watery excuse. There is no justifying what he did.”

“And you, Lady Arya?”

“I agree with my mother,” she says. “He could have saved her from my aunt without taking her life.”

Littlefinger’s face shines with sweat. “I am the Lord Protector of the Vale, the sole surviving parent of Lord Robin Arryn--”

“He would have had two parents had you not killed his mother,” Lord Royce says crisply. “And what of Lady Arryn’s claim that she poisoned her husband to marry you, hmm? What part had you in that?”

“No part,” Littlefinger says quickly. “Lysa was mad, she would’ve done anything to marry me, even killing her own husband--”

“And the fact that her husband died at the same time he discovered the paternity of Cersei Lannister’s children had nothing to do with you?” Catelyn demands. “You have spies everywhere, Lord Baelish, and you knew what Jon Arryn discovered. You told Lysa to poison him and blame the Lannisters so that no one would suspect you.”

“Cat--”

“Don’t you talk to my mother!” Arya shouts.

“Lord Baelish,” Lady Waynwood intones. “You have been found guilty of the murder of Lysa Arryn and of conspiring to murder Jon Arryn. You are hereby sentenced to death.”

“No!” he cries, but guards are already turning the wheel that opens the Moon Door.

“Do you have any last words?” Lord Royce rumbles.

Littlefinger turns wide, frightened eyes up at Catelyn, and in that moment, Arya thinks he looks like a little boy. 

“Cat,” he pleads.

Catelyn stares back at him, hard and unyielding. 

“Cat!”

Lord Royce nods at the guards. They grab Littlefinger by the arms, dragging him to the door, and then drop him down into it. 

His screams fade until there is no sound but the whip of the wind.


	28. THEON IX

While Asha and her men sail north to Deepwood Motte, Theon and his men sail up Blazewater Bay and into the Neck. .

Few men have ever visited Greywater Watch, in large part because the castle has a habit of traveling. Built on the floating crannogs for which the inhabitants of the Neck are so famous, Greywater Watch never stays in one place, and if anyone manages to find it once, there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to find it again. Ironborn and Freys have attempted to conquer the castle, but they were unable to find it and rode into the mire, never to be recovered. 

Theon hopes he will not be among their number.

They’ve been in the swamps for three days when they stumble across a hunting party. The men and women look up at them, eyes wary.

“Greetings,” Theon calls to them, reining in his horse. “I come as a servant of King Rickon Stark to speak with Lord Howland Reed. Can any of you direct me to Greywater Watch?”

“I can,” says a woman with a fishnet tied around her waist. “You’d best follow me, my lord, and leave your horses behind. Your armor, too, for that matter.”

Theon doesn’t like the sound of that, but he knows that there will be no way to take the horses onto the crannog, and should he fall, his armor will only weigh him down. Reluctantly, he removes his armor and instructs the men to stay with the horses, taking five with him to Greywater Watch. 

The woman, Lira, takes them through marshland blanketed with a thick fog. They walk for so long that Theon can’t tell if the darkness around them is because night is falling or because this place never gets much light. His boots keep out most of the water and murk, but every now and then his foot will slip and he’ll pitch forward. There are bugs everywhere, too, buzzing insects drawn to flesh, and he spends most of the walk slapping them off of his face and neck.

“How much further?” he asks Lira, his knee smarting from his most recent fall.

“Not far,” she says cryptically. 

“Will it be tonight, will it be tomorrow--”

“Soon, my lord.” 

He huffs in displeasure, and to his even greater dismay, Lira laughs.

“Have patience, my lord. It will reveal itself when it is time.”

Unswayed by this vague statement, Theon closes his mouth and keeps following her. 

.

It’s well and truly nighttime when Lira comes to a sudden halt, the men stumbling to a stop behind her. She holds up two fingers to her mouth and whistles.

And there, in the darkness, comes an answering whistle. A moment later there is a splash, and as Theon squints into the darkness, a man in a rowboat slowly takes shape. 

“Evening, Lira.”

“Evening, Hobb. I have King Rickon Stark’s men here for Lord Reed.”

The man called Hobb appraises the six men. “Any friend of the Starks is a friend to House Reed. Come in, lads, and we’ll get you a nice hot supper.”

Theon and the five men he took with him step gratefully into the boat. Lira comes with them, chatting with Hobb about his wife and children as he pulls the oars, carrying them into the river. 

Greywater Watch appears very suddenly, the fog shifting enough to let Theon see the fires inside the castle. Hobb rows them up to the floating island, pulling the boat “ashore” and securing it. Lira and the men climb out, and she leads them to a crude wooden walkway, where a sentry calls out to them.

“Evening, Lira.”

“Evening, Gunter. I have visitors from Winterfell for Lord Reed.”

“Winterfell, you say?”

“Aye.”

“Any friend of House Stark is a friend of House Reed.”

The wooden walkway takes them up and into a great timber keep. Inside the keep is a modest receiving chamber, and it is here that Lira tells them to wait. She goes out a side door, closing it behind her.

Now that he’s inside, Theon knows that he and the five Mormont men reek of sweat and swamp. He hopes he’ll get a chance to wash before meeting Lord Reed. 

The door opens a long time later. The man standing in it is short, as are all crannogmen, and his face is hidden behind a bushy red beard. He smiles and bows at Theon. 

“Welcome to Greywater Watch. Any friend of House Stark is a friend of House Reed.”

Theon bows back, realizing with a sinking feeling that this is Lord Reed. 

“My lord, my name is Theon Greyjoy. I come on behalf of King Rickon Stark.”

“Welcome, Theon Greyjoy. I am at His Grace’s service. Perhaps you would like to talk over a hot meal? I imagine you’ve had a cold, wet walk here.”

“We have at that, my lord. Thank you,” he says sincerely. 

Servants bring chairs to the long table at the end of the receiving hall, lighting candles and stoking the fire in the hearth. More servants bring in plates of food, including the traditional bread and salt. 

The dishes are mostly frog and lizard lion, but cooked into a hearty stew and flavored with spices, Theon can hardly tell. It is over these that he explains the reason for his visit to Lord Reed, who listens with patient attention.

“We are, of course, at His Grace’s command,” he says. “I owe the Starks a great deal. I was much grieved to hear about my old friend, Lord Eddard, and his son Robb; I will do all in my power to help his family.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And so, you want me to choke the Neck of the Boltons, is that it?” he asks, smiling.

Theon inclines his head. “No one knows the Neck better than the crannogmen. We ask you to take Moat Cailin from the Boltons and prevent any Boltons or Lannisters from going up or down the causeway.”

“It will be done, my lord.”

Theon feels relieved at the assurance. “Thank you, Lord Reed.”

The other man bows his head. 

“May I ask you something, my lord?”

“Of course.”

“Your children went to Winterfell recently. Did you know they left with Lord Bran?”

Howland Reed’s face becomes impossible to read. “I had heard as much.”

“Do you know where they’ve gone?”

Lord Reed is quiet for a long moment, stroking his beard. “I believe they have gone to find one who can give them answers.”

Theon stares at him, perplexed. “Answers to what, my lord?”

“Questions. Dreams. Riddles.”

The conversation has taken a turn, steering Theon back into that territory of never quite understanding what the crannogmen are saying. 

“Any answer I give you will be unsatisfactory,” Lord Reed says, seeing the dismay on Theon’s face. “Rest assured that my children will do all in their power to protect Lord Bran.”

“From what?” Theon persists.

Lord Reed says nothing, only smiles.

.

They spend the night in Greywater Watch. Theon’s bed has netting all around it, which the servant tells him is to keep the insects away. Even after a cold bath, he feels dirty and itchy from the day spent sludging around in the marsh.

It’s a relief to climb in the boat in the morning, letting Hobb row him, his men, and Lira back across the swamp. Few men have ever laid eyes on Greywater Watch, and Theon hopes he will never have to lay eyes on the place again. As grateful as he is for Lord Reed’s assistance, he will be more grateful still to get out of this miasma. 

Lira not only leads them back to the rest of their party, but also leads them out of the swamp to the causeway. 

“In three days’ time, Moat Cailin shall be yours,” she says with one of her cryptic smiles. “Farewell, Theon Greyjoy, servant of King Rickon Stark.”

Theon leads his men up the causeway, eager to put the Neck and all its oddities far behind him. 

  
  



	29. ARYA VII

Arya wakes up one morning to find snow falling from the sky.

She pulls on boots and a cloak before running outside, eager to be in the snow again. Grey Wind comes with her, his long legs carrying him through the castle and out into the courtyard. 

Arya’s breath catches as she stumbles outside, the world padded and silent the way it is when it snows. The air smells like snow, crisp and cold, and up above, the sky is an endless sea of white. 

Grey Wind barks, and with a grin, Arya tears after him, chasing the direwolf up and down the courtyard. He wags his tail, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and he looks so much like a puppy again that Arya can’t help but throw herself at him. They roll together in the snow, girl and wolf, until Grey Wind sneezes and falls onto his back. Arya rubs his belly vigorously, cooing to the great beast turned baby.

“He frightens me.”

Arya looks up at Robin, who stands on the step, bundled up as if he’s planning on going beyond the Wall. 

“He won’t hurt you,” she says, still scratching the direwolf’s belly. 

Robin eyes the creature warily, not moving from his spot. 

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” she asks, wishing he would go away. 

“I wanted to see the snow. I’ve never seen it before.”

She softens at that. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He wipes his nose. “It’s cold.”

“This is nothing; in Winterfell, the snows pile up taller than a man,” she says, unable to help the longing in her voice. She misses her home, and she longs to return to it. 

Robin takes a tentative step forward, shivering. A snowflake lands on his cheek and he blinks in surprise.

“Want to build a snowcastle?” Arya asks. 

Robin nods but doesn’t move, watching Grey Wind. Arya plunges her hands into the snow and starts constructing a castle. At first, it starts to take the shape of Winterfell, but after a few moments, Robin joins her, kneeling in the snow beside her. 

“You should build more towers,” he says. “Tall ones, like the Red Keep.”

Arya sculpts high, thin spires of snow.

“And a Moon Door,” he adds eagerly.

She considers her task for a moment before building a square tower and then poking a finger up into it. “There. A Moon Door.”

Robin takes a handful of snow and starts shaping it at the base of the tower. 

“What are you making, Robin?”

“The rocks. Everyone who goes through the Moon Door lands on the rocks,” he answers patiently.

Arya wonders if he knows that his own mother landed on rocks when she fell. 

They’re adding a moat to the castle when Catelyn comes out into the courtyard. 

“Arya! You’ll catch cold! And Robin, you should be in bed!”

“I’m fine, Mother,” Arya says stubbornly. “And Robin is too. We’re building a snowcastle.”

Robin is indeed looking better than he has in weeks, his pale face flushed with color and his eyes bright with excitement. Catelyn notices the change and purses her lips. 

“Well, don’t stay out here too long; I don’t want you catching cold right before we ride north.”

“We’re riding north?” Arya asks, abandoning her snowcastle. 

Catelyn has a small smile on her face. “We are.”

 

“Can I come?” Robin asks, wiping his nose.

Catelyn bends down to look him in the eye. “You must stay here, Robin. You are the Lord of  the Vale; you cannot abandon your people.” 

He considers this. “Don’t I need a regent?”

“You have one: me.”

Robin frowns. “But how can you be my regent if you aren’t here?”

“Because, as your regent, I have decided to lend the Vale’s aid to your cousins in the North. I am going to ride with Bronze Yohn Royce and the Knights of the Vale to Winterfell and take back my home.”

Robin considers this. “Who will take care of me while you’re gone?”

“As winter is coming, you will make the customary descent to the Gates of the Moon and be given into the care of Lord Nestor Royce. He will watch over you until I can return.”

This seems to satisfy Robin, who wipes his nose again. 

“Come inside, both of you,” Catelyn urges. 

Arya stands up, her legs protesting after being bent in the cold for so long. Her gown is soaking wet from the snow, and for the first time, she realizes how cold she is. She lets her mother bundle her off to their room, sitting her by the fire and giving her hot porridge to eat. 

“So it worked, then? You’re Regent of the Vale?”

“I am. The lords were all in favor,” Catelyn says, laying out clothes for Arya to change into. 

“What will you do when the war is won?”

“I will keep the regency and arrange for one of the lords of the Vale to care for Robin until he is of age. I think he would do well under the tutelage of Lord Yohn; he raised three strong sons, and gods know your cousin needs strength.”

Everyone knows Robin needs strength; the boy is sickly and weak and will need a maester’s careful attention for the rest of his life. 

“Will we be able to take back Winterfell with the Knights of the Vale?”

“Yes,” Catelyn says firmly. “Lord Royce says he will be able to raise twenty thousand men. We will outnumber the Boltons, and gods be good, we’ll have our home back. Mayhap we’ll even help Stannis take the Iron Throne before winter.” She strokes her daughter’s hair. “Now, finish your porridge and get dressed; we have much work to do before we can leave.”

Arya fairly gobbles up her porridge, so eager is she to get started. She can’t wait to put this high, strange place behind her. They’ll be in the North soon, and the Knights will take back Winterfell, and soon, all will be as it should.

  
  



	30. THEON X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters are all super short, so thank you for your patience in enduring them!

The ride up the causeway is a long one, made longer still by Theon’s stalling. He wants to give the crannogmen plenty of time to take Moat Cailin, and he fears that if they arrive too soon, they’ll have to take the Boltons on their own. 

When they do arrive, it is to find the black lizard lion of House Reed flying from the battlements. Relieved, Theon urges the men on. As they draw nearer, a cry goes up from the keep.

“ _ The King in the North! The King in the North! _ ”

The Mormont men return the call, and much cheered, Theon and the Mormont men ride into the open gate. There, the crannogmen offer them food and a place to sleep before they continue northward. 

“They didn’t know what hit them,” the commander at Moat Cailin chortles over bread and beer. “Some of these men have their noses so high in the air they don’t see us, being as small as we are. Some men make fun of us for it, but our cunning has never failed us yet.”

“King Rickon is grateful for your cunning,” Theon says, speaking on behalf of the boy king. “He will not forget his friends.”

“The Starks helped Lord Reed many years ago, and he has not forgotten that kindness. We are happy to repay it however we can.” He leans forward. “The North remembers, Lord Greyjoy.”

.

In the morning, Theon and his fifty men saddle up and ride up the kingsroad. Moat Cailin is theirs, which means the Neck is theirs, but how long will that serve? Roose Bolton still has an army of six thousand, whereas Theon...Theon has two hundred and fifty men, if Asha brings her full force. They’re hopelessly outnumbered, and even if they get men from White Harbor, they won’t have enough to defeat the Boltons.

Perhaps this is a fool’s errand after all. He should have sent a raven to Lady Catelyn and asked her to send men north. 

But sending men north now means losing ground to the Lannisters, ground they may not be able to retake. That would only drag out the war even longer.

Hoping Wyman Manderly has a miracle hidden up his sleeve, Theon spurs his horse onward to White Harbor.

.

Lord Manderly receives them happily, wining and dining them before they’ve even had a chance to ask for more men. He was always a merry man, and Theon finds the comforts of White Harbor a pleasant respite after the Neck. He cannot help but indulge in the capons, peppers, and Dornish wine set before him. 

“And how is our king?” the lord of White Harbor booms in his extremely percussive voice. All around them, men, women, and children chatter and laugh, looking so peaceful that it’s as if there is no war. 

“Well, when I left him,” Theon says dutifully. “Though longing for his home.”

“Shameful, what the Boltons have done. What sort of man rises up against his liege lord and sides with the enemy?”

“A man with no honor.”

Lord Manderly raises his goblet. “I’ll drink to that.”

Lord Manderly will drink to anything, it seems, and encourages his guests to do the same. Theon doesn’t remember the latter half of the evening, his head too fuzzy from wine; as he flops into his bed, he hopes, dimly, that he remembered to ask Lord Manderly for men.

He wakes what can only be a few hours later, a light knocking on his door.

“What?” he grouses, his stomach turning.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord, but Lord Manderly craves your presence.”

So early? After a night of drinking and carousing, Theon would have thought the other man would be as fuzzy-headed as he.

“Give me a moment to dress.”

He splashes cold water on his face and chest and runs his fingers through his hair until he looks presentable, then dresses in his rumpled travel clothes. He follows the maester to the receiving hall, where Lord Manderly sits in a chair, rubbing red eyes and belching under his breath. 

“Lord Theon,” he rasps, and Theon’s wroth at being woken so early is soothed by the knowledge that Lord Manderly seems equally unhappy to be awake. 

“Lord Manderly,” he greets, his own voice rough from a night without much sleep. “You sent for me.”

“I did.” Lord Manderly holds up a raven’s scroll. “News from the Eyrie. Lysa Arryn is dead, and Catelyn Stark has been made the Lady Regent of the Vale. She rides for Winterfell with twenty thousand men.”

Theon’s grogginess disappears as he takes in these words. “Truly?”

“We received a raven early this morning. Very early,” the lord grumbles. “I’m happy to give you what men are left to me, Lord Theon. If you ride out tomorrow, you should just meet them on the kingsroad.”

Theon can hardly believe what he’s hearing.  _ Twenty thousand men _ . More than twice Roose Bolton’s men. Even if the Karstarks and the Dustins and the Hornwoods throw in their lot with Roose Bolton, twenty thousand of the Vale knights and the odd warriors from Bear Island, White Harbor, and the Iron Islands will be more than enough to defeat them. 

“May I have ink and parchment, my lord? I have two ravens to send, and I must make all haste.”

“Theomore!” Lord Manderly bellows at the maester. “Ink and parchment for Lord Greyjoy, and anything else that he requires! Let it not be said that House Manderly forgot the Starks in their hour of need!”

  
  



	31. ARYA VIII

Arya rides ahead of the column, unable to keep the smile off her face. At long last, she’s going home. They’ll have to win their home back from the Boltons first, of course, but with twenty thousand Vale men, victory is sure to be theirs. 

Brienne rides close behind her, keeping an eye out on the girl. She needn’t worry; Grey Wind, as always, is close by Arya’s side. It’s as if he understands that they’re going back; he seems brighter and happier than ever before. 

As they pass out of the Eyrie and into the Neck, Catelyn rides up beside Arya.

“Moat Cailin will likely be held by the Boltons; I want you to pull back with me and let the knights take the keep.”

“Can I watch the battle?”

“Arya,” Catelyn scolds, but she doesn’t explicitly say no.

.

When they make camp that night, Catelyn sits Arya down and brushes through the tangles in her hair. Arya winces, hissing whenever the brush catches a snag.

“Your hair is getting longer,” Catelyn remarks. 

“I like it short.”

“It suits you,” Catelyn agrees, surprising her daughter. “But if you grow it out again, you can tie it back so it won’t get in your face when you ride...and swing a sword.”

Arya jerks her head to look at her mother, who smiles down at her. “You know?”

“Brienne told me, yes. Before, I might have said no, but...I think if the past few months have taught me anything, it’s that my children must know how to protect themselves. When we are back in Winterfell, I will have Brienne train you.”

Arya’s heart leaps. “Truly?”

Catelyn smiles. “Truly. Gods know I need an excuse to keep her in the North.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Let’s get to bed.”

But Arya lies awake for a long time, remembering the feeling of Needle in her hand. 

.

Catelyn and Brienne are gone when Arya wakes in the morning. Only Grey Wind remains, gnawing on a boot he found somewhere. Arya pities the man to whom it belonged; the direwolf has made a mess of the thing, and it will never be wearable again. He abandons it to follow Arya outside and to one of the fires, where Lord Royce’s squire hands her a plate of bacon and blood sausage. He tosses a misshapen sausage to Grey Wind, who snaps up the meat. The squire grins.

“He’s a beautiful beast.”

“He is,” Arya agrees around a mouthful of bacon. “He was my brother Robb’s.”

She likes to think that Robb would be happy, knowing she and Grey Wind have become so close.  _ We’re taking care of each other _ , she tells him. 

She’s about to ask the squire for seconds when a shout comes up through the camp. Grey Wind rises, alert.

“What’s going on?” Arya asks out loud.

“Rider from Moat Cailin,” says a man passing by. “The Boltons are gone; the lizard lion of House Reed flies from the battlements.”

House Reed. The crannogmen. Didn’t Lord Reed’s children disappear with Bran?

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“It means, little lady, that the Neck belongs to the King in the North.”

There will be no battle for Moat Cailin after all; there already was one. The crannogmen killed the Bolton men or sent them home with their tails between their legs, and if any Lannisters should come trying to aid the Boltons, they won’t get past the Neck. 

She smiles and holds out her plate. “More bacon, please.”

“You have the appetite of a soldier,” Lord Royce’s squire says approvingly. 

“We wolves are always hungry.”

The lad roars with laughter. 

They’re still sitting there, talking and eating, when Catelyn returns, Brienne in tow.

“Is it true?” Arya stands up, wiping her mouth. “The crannogmen took Moat Cailin?”

“It is true,” Catelyn confirms. “And that isn’t all; Theon Greyjoy and two hundred men from White Harbor wait for us on the kingsroad.”

“Theon?” she asks, surprised. “What is he doing here?”

“You can ask him yourself in a few hours.”

“Are Rickon and Sansa with him?”

“If they are, our scout did not say.” Still, she looks hopeful. “Pack up your things; we’ll leave within the hour.”

Arya hoots in glee and abandons her plate.

“And fold your things properly, don’t just throw them willy-nilly!” Catelyn calls after her daughter, but Arya is too giddy to care.

.

The journey up the causeway seems to take forever. Arya keeps wanting to ride ahead, and Catelyn has to keep calling her back. 

“I could reach Theon in no time if I just rode ahead--” she tries to tell her mother, but Catelyn won’t have it.

“Just because Theon is waiting at Moat Cailin doesn’t mean you can ride off by yourself! We are at war, Arya.”

“Who’s going to kill me? The lizard lions?” 

Catelyn gives her daughter so stern a look that Arya cannot help but hang her head. She keeps her horse in line with her mother’s, but this only lasts as long as her shame; before long she’s champing at the bit again. 

“Oh, very well,” Catelyn says with no small amount of exasperation. “Brienne, ride ahead with Arya before she dies of impatience.”

Elated at her mother’s permission, Arya digs her heels into her mare. The horse lets out a whinny and breaks into a gallop, hooves thundering over the road. She doesn’t even look back to see if Brienne is following, just lets out a joyful whoop.

When Moat Cailin comes into view, she urges her horse back into a trot, girl and beast both breathing hard after the run. She hears hoofbeats behind her and knows that Brienne is slowing down her own mount.

“Moat Cailin,” she calls back, pointing at the fortress. Sure enough, the banners that wave from it are green and black--the colors of House Reed.

“I’ve never been this far north,” Brienne admits. 

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Arya asks, breathing in the air. It feels...right. Colder and clearer, somehow. She twists around in her saddle and sees the Vale army some distance behind them. 

“Shall we wait for them, my lady?”

“That’ll take too long.” And with that, Arya urges her mare into a gallop once more. 

“Lady Arya!” Brienne calls, but Arya is already thundering towards the castle.

As she draws nearer, a sentry from the battlements calls out to her.

“Who goes there?”

“Arya Stark of Winterfell!” she shouts. 

“My lady!” Brienne chides from where she’s struggling to catch up with her. “This isn’t safe--”

But the gate is already rising.

Men come pouring out of the fortress on horseback, men carrying Mormont and Manderly banners, and at their head rides a man Arya would know anywhere.

Theon Greyjoy.

Even from a distance, she can see that smile on his face, the one he always wears. It makes her smile as the men form a column on the causeway.

“Is that Arya Underfoot I see?” he calls, riding up to meet her. 

“That’s  _ Princess _ Arya Underfoot to you.”

He laughs. He looks well; his hair is cut short, and the hair around his mouth looks fuller and darker, less patchy and desperate than it had been a few years ago. 

“It’s good to see you,” he says sincerely. “I thought you were dead. We all did.”

“What is dead may never die,” she quips.

He grins. “What is dead may never die.”

“Are Rickon and Sansa with you?” 

He shakes his head. “I left them on Bear Island with Lyanna Mormont. I sent a raven yesterday; they’ll meet us at Winterfell in a few days.”

Arya admits to disappointment at not being able to see her brother and sister, but in a way, she’s glad they’re on Bear Island; they’ll be safe there.

“So why were you in White Harbor?”

“I’ve been all over, little Stark. I sailed down the coast with fifty Mormont men and ran into my sister--again. She’s pledged two hundred ironborn to our cause. And then I went to Greywater Watch, where I asked Howland Reed to send the crannogmen to take Moat Cailin from the Boltons. From there, I went to White Harbor to beg support from Lord Manderly, but by the time I got there, we had word that your mother was riding north with twenty thousand men from the Vale.”

“She’s the Lady Regent until my cousin comes of age; when we retake Winterfell, we’ll send the Knights of the Vale south to help Stannis take King’s Landing.”

The Vale army is approaching now, and Arya waits until her mother rides up to join them.

“Well met, Lady Stark,” Theon says with a pleased sort of grin. 

“Well met, Theon.” She looks bemused at his presence. “Have you come to escort us to Winterfell?”

“I had meant to take Winterfell, my lady, but that was before I found out you were riding north with twenty thousand men.”

“I admire your determination. My children are safe?”

“On Bear Island, my lady, but they will meet us at Winterfell in a few days’ time.”

Catelyn nods approvingly. “The Mormonts have always been loyal to House Stark. You did well. And you have my eternal gratitude for saving my children.”

Theon bows his head. “Robb was my brother, and that makes his brothers and sisters my own.”

“Robb would be proud of you,” she says softly. 

“Thank you, my lady.” 

“Now,” she says, business once more. “We have a long road ahead of us; let’s not waste another moment.”

Theon raises his sword. “We ride for Winterfell!” he yells. “For House Stark and the King in the North!”

A great cheer goes up.

_ “THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!” _


	32. SANSA VIII

Sansa reads the raven’s scroll over and over again, trying to make sense of it.

“What does it say?” Jeyne presses from where she’s trying--unsuccessfully--to brush Shaggydog’s fur. She and Sansa had gotten tired of seeing the wolf’s unkempt appearance, and much to the creature’s dismay, they’d taken it upon themselves to wash and brush him. He had put up a terrific fight, but when Rickon had climbed in the tub with him, he’d thought it a game. There’s now more water on the floor than in the tub, but the direwolf is clean for perhaps the first time since he was a pup. 

“Theon writes from White Harbor...he says that my mother has been named Lady Regent of the Vale and is riding north with twenty thousand men. He wants us to sail for Deepwood Motte, where his sister will escort us to Winterfell.”

“His sister?” Jeyne repeats in surprise. “Hold  _ still _ .”

Shaggydog whines, struggling to get free, but Jeyne has a firm hold on him.

“I thought he and his sister didn’t get along.”

“I thought so too,” Sansa says, still reading his letter and wondering if there isn’t something she’s missing.

“Could this be a trap?” Jeyne wonders. “Maybe Asha wrote us herself and is trying to hold Rickon for ransom.”

“The scroll was sealed with the mermaid of House Manderly.”

Jeyne lapses into thoughtful silence. 

Sansa considers the raven’s scroll. Theon’s plan  _ had _ been to sail down to Flint’s Finger, appeal to the crannogmen, and then make his way to White Harbor. Given the amount of time that’s passed and the mermaid seal, it stands to reason that he made it to White Harbor. But why would her mother be riding up the kingsroad with twenty thousand men from the Vale? And why would Theon send his sister to escort them when the last time he’d seen her, he’d decided he didn’t want to be part of that family anymore?

“Even if it is a trap, it’s a very elaborate one,” Sansa muses out loud. 

“If it is a trap, it isn’t one laid by Asha Greyjoy. There, you’re done!”

Shaggydog bolts away from Jeyne. The wolf looks cleaner and sleeker than he ever has. Sansa wonders how long it will take him to get dirty again.

“Why do you say that?”

Jeyne stands up, brushing the black fur off of her skirt. “She’d have no need to lure us to Deepwood Motte. If she knows where we are and meant to kidnap Rickon, she could just come to Bear Island and do it herself.”

That is true; Asha wouldn’t need to go to the trouble of laying an elaborate trap when she could sail across the bay and take what she wanted in true ironborn fashion.

“I don’t think it’s a trap,” Jeyne continues. “It wouldn’t make sense as a trap. If it was someone trying to lure us into a false sense of security, they wouldn’t have mentioned the ironborn escort. They would have said it was the Manderlys or Umbers or someone we  _ know _ is loyal to House Stark.” 

She makes a good point.

“What do you make of my mother leading the Vale army?”

“Why shouldn’t she? She was in the Riverlands when we left her; it’s not a far distance from the Vale, and if your aunt died, that would make your mother your cousin’s guardian. She must have heard about the Boltons taking Winterfell and now she’s doing everything in her power to take it back.”

That also makes sense, and reassures Sansa. 

“Then, you think we should go?”

“Ask Lady Lyanna to send more men with us--just in case. If Asha is on our side, we have nothing to fear, and if she isn’t, then the men will put up a good fight.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

.

Lyanna not only agrees to send fifty more men with Sansa and Rickon, but also volunteers to accompany them.

“I swore to protect the King in the North until Winterfell was his again, and I intend to hold to that oath,” the serious little girl says.

“Will you not be missed on Bear Island, my lady?”

“The island will hold. Winterfell will not.”

Sansa feels a surge of gratefulness for the younger girl and her devotion to the Starks. Her mind does some quick calculating. Lyanna’s of an age with Rickon, and from a noble Northern house. It would be a good match.

_ Focus, Sansa _ . She can think about that later. 

...but if she happens to discuss the advantages of such a match with Jeyne while they pack, so be it.

.

The whole journey to Deepwood Motte, Sansa’s a bundle of nerves. She puts on a brave face for Rickon, but inside, she’s terrified that some trap awaits them. Even if Theon sent that raven in earnest, even if Asha is waiting for them, what if she turns on her brother? What if she only forged an alliance with him to get to Rickon?

“That’s still an excessively elaborate plan,” Jeyne says sensibly when Sansa confesses her fears.

“You don’t get a bad feeling about this?”

Jeyne shakes her head.

“Why not?”

“Because...Theon’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t put our lives in the hands of someone he didn’t wholly and completely trust. He wouldn’t send us to stay with just anyone, he made sure it was one of the most loyal houses in the North. Why would he choose an escort he didn’t think was just as loyal?”

Jeyne, as usual, makes a very good point. It still doesn’t quell Sansa’s nerves when she sees the kraken sails snapping in the wind, though, and she grips Rickon’s shoulder with a bone-crushing intensity as they make their way to Deepwood Motte.

One hundred ironborn are already waiting outside, watching as the visitors from Bear Island approach them. At their head stands a woman with short hair, the same color as Theon’s. She dips her head. “Your Grace,” she calls in a voice that commands authority. “I am Asha Greyjoy. My brother Theon sent me to escort you to Winterfell.”

“Well met, Lady Asha,” Rickon says, visibly excited at the prospect of meeting an ironborn warrior-maiden. 

They take a bite to eat in the castle before marching into the Wolfswood. Shaggydog goes ahead of them, happy to be back in his homeland. As they ride, Sansa can’t help but ask Asha the question that’s been burning on her mind since she received Theon’s letter.

“Why are you helping us?”

Asha gives her a wry smile. “Because when the time comes, I’ll want the North’s help.”

“With what?” Sansa asks, intrigued.

“My uncle killed my father and means to kill me too. He was named king at the kingsmoot, but I would put a queen on the Seastone Chair.”

“You want us to make you a queen?” she asks in disbelief.

Asha shrugs. “Why not? You’ve made a boy your king--why shouldn’t an able and proven warrior become queen?

And Sansa...Sansa doesn’t really know what to say to that. Asha  _ is _ an able and proven warrior--she’s more fit to be queen, probably, than Rickon is to be king. 

“At the very least,” Asha adds, “I want your help in overthrowing my uncle. Euron is a vicious man, and even if I fled to the farthest corner of the world, he’d come after me.”

“Why?”

Asha gives her that wry smile again. “Because he can’t afford to have anyone choose a little girl over him.”

Sansa decides that she likes Asha Greyjoy. 


	33. ARYA IX

They encounter no trouble on the road, which Arya knows is because of their numbers; no one wants to go up against twenty thousand men.

They move quickly, too, for which she’s grateful; they’ll be at Winterfell in a matter of days.

It’s late in the afternoon when Cerwyn comes into view, and Arya feels her spirits soar. Cerwyn is only half a day’s ride from Winterfell, which means that tomorrow, they can march for Winterfell.

“Do you think the Cerwyns will let us stay the night?” she asks her mother.

Catelyn shakes her head. “It’s hard to say. They have ever been loyal to House Stark, but they don’t have the numbers to resist Roose Bolton; they may have been cajoled into supporting him.”

As it turns out, they don’t need to worry about House Cerwyn, because a small army is already camped around the castle’s walls. An army waving the banners of a direwolf, a kraken, and a bear.

Arya urges her horse into a gallop, ignoring her mother’s admonitions. She knows what she’ll find at Cerwyn.

The men in the camp all look at her as she canters through, her eyes searching for a familiar face.

And then she hears it.

“Arya?”

She twists around and sees Sansa. Her heart leaps at the sight of her sister, the sister she hasn’t seen in two years. She slides off her horse and runs to Sansa, all thought of courtesy and decorum flying out her head. She’d meant to curtsy prettily and apologize, but her happiness at seeing Sansa again has her blood coursing through her veins.

And to her relief, Sansa looks just as excited to see her. She breaks into a run too, and in a moment their bodies collide, arms thrown around one another. Sansa lifts Arya off her feet, breathing hard.

“You’re here,” she says in awe.

And Arya says the first thing that comes to her mind. “Thought you were rid of me, didn’t you?”

Sansa lets out a laugh. “I’m glad I’m not.” She sets down her sister, beaming. “You look well.”

“Really?” Arya asks in surprise, and then realizes that her sister must just be saying that to be kind.

Sansa nods. “The short hair...it looks good on you.”

“Thank you.” Arya feels suddenly embarrassed. “You look...beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Sansa looks suddenly emotional. “I...I’m sorry. For how...awful I was to you.”

Arya shakes her head, her own emotions welling. “No, _I’m_ sorry, I was a brat--”

“I was so upset about Lady--”

“I never stopped blaming myself for Mycah--”

“I wish I’d realized sooner how terrible Joffrey was--”

“ _Arya_!” exclaims a voice, and both sisters turn to see Rickon pelting towards them. He nearly knocks the wind out of Arya, so forcefully does his body hit hers, but she laughs and stumbles to regain her footing.

“Your Grace,” she teases, ruffling his hair.

“Don’t call me that! You’re my sister, you can still call me Rickon.”

“Very well... _King_ Rickon.”

“Stop it!” He gives his sister a small shove, and then looks abashed, as if he’s realized how unkingly it is. “Where’s Mother?”

“She’s not far behind, only I couldn’t help riding ahead to see you.”

“Do you really have twenty thousand men with you?”

She smiles. “I do. Mother’s the Lady Regent of the Vale now.”

“How did _that_ happen?” Sansa asks.

Arya starts to tell her, but the woman in question and all twenty thousand, two hundred, and fifty men reach the camp at that moment. Sansa and Rickon run forward to greet their mother, who wraps her arms around both of them and holds them close. She looks up at Arya, smiling, and lifts a hand to beckon her forward.

Arya joins the huddle, throwing her arms around her siblings and burying her face in their shoulders.

At long last, they are back together.

.

The Cerwyns feast them that night, raising a toast to the returned Starks. In the morning, they’ll ride to Winterfell and offer Roose Bolton the chance to surrender or fight. They all know he won’t surrender. He’s too proud a man for that, even if he is hopelessly outnumbered.

Good. Arya wants him to fight; it will make it all the more satisfying when they take back their home.

 _And when we have our home, the men will ride south and defeat the Lannisters once and for all_.

News from King’s Landing reports that Tyrion Lannister, put on trial for poisoning Joffrey at his wedding feast, killed Tywin Lannister the night before his execution and then disappeared. Tywin was the Lannisters’ greatest strength, and without him, it’s only Cersei and plump little Tommen commanding the southern armies. With the North, Riverlands, and the Vale against them, they’ll be sure to fall.

At long, long last, they can avenge Father’s death--and Robb’s.

Arya is seated near Theon’s sister during the feast, and she quickly develops a liking for the Greyjoy heiress. Asha is a fierce warrior who commands not only ships, but also the loyalty of her men. They regard her as a queen and would follow her anywhere, even to a battlefield far away from the sea.

And Asha herself is unabashedly unfeminine. She dresses like a man, cuts her hair short like a man, even sits like a man with her legs spread wide.

 _I want to be her_ , Arya realizes. Maybe, when all this is over, her mother would consent to let her travel with Asha Greyjoy, to sail the high seas and visit Essos.

She isn’t the only Stark to be taken with Asha Greyjoy; Rickon is enthralled with everything the warrior-maiden says and does, and even Sansa can’t seem to stop talking to Asha, blushing whenever the other woman pays her a compliment.

“Why is she helping us?” Arya asks Theon later.

He sips his wine. “She wants to be Queen of the Iron Islands. She wants the North to recognize her as such.”

She considers this. “Is that what you want?”

He nods. “She would be a good leader. Better than our uncle. And...it’s her right. She’s the oldest living child of our father.”

“Even though she’s a girl?”

He nods again. “Even though she’s a girl.”

Arya can’t help smiling.

“You like her?”

“Yes,” she says truthfully.

“Me too,” he says, a proud note in his voice. “I wasn’t sure if I could trust her at first, but...she’s proven herself.”

“I’m sorry about your father,” Arya says, remembering the news about Balon Greyjoy.

Theon shakes his head. “He wasn’t a kind man. He named himself king even when he knew it meant my death. He would rather be king than let his son live. I have no love for the man, even if my uncle did kill him.”

“Your uncle killed him?”

“There’s no proof, but the circumstances of his death were...mysterious. Especially now that he’s king.”

Arya looks him in the eye. “You helped my family when we needed it most. We’ll help yours, too.”

He smiles at her. “You’re just saying that because you want to be in a battle.”

“So?”

He laughs. “It’s good to have you back, Princess Underfoot.”

.

In the morning, they ride out: twenty thousand men from the Vale, two hundred men from White Harbor, one hundred men from Bear Island, one hundred men from House Cerwyn, and one hundred ironborn. And, of course, the King in the North.

The Mormonts have taken it upon themselves to fashion a crown for Rickon; made of sharp iron points, the crown gives him an older, more serious look. Sitting astride his horse and leading an army of twenty five hundred men, his kingliness is unquestionable.

Arya rides behind him and alongside Sansa. The two sisters spend the ride updating each other on all that has passed since they last saw each other two years ago in King’s Landing. Arya is furious at the things Joffrey and Cersei made her sister endure, and at Ramsay Snow’s attempted marriage to her. Sansa is horrified to learn all that her sister has experienced, from living on the streets to being a prisoner at Harrenhal to witnessing their aunt’s death.

“It feels odd; on the one hand, she meant to kill Mother, but on the other, the husband she loved so much murdered her in cold blood.”

“What happened to him?” Sansa asks.

“The lords of the Vale found him guilty and executed him. Pushed him through the Moon Door.”

“Good,” Sansa says bluntly. She twists around in her saddle to call to Jeyne Poole, “Did you hear that?”

“No; what is it?” Jeyne asks.

“Littlefinger was executed for murdering my Aunt Lysa.”

Jeyne’s face hardens. “Good.”

There’s been a visible change in Jeyne Poole. Arya had never liked the older girl, thinking her even sillier and stupider than Sansa, but there is nothing silly or stupid about Jeyne now. She’s quieter, more serious, and seems to have a permanently haunted look in her eyes.

Arya isn’t stupid--she’s pieced together enough to know what happened to Jeyne. As mean as Jeyne had been to her growing up, she didn’t deserve what happened to her. Arya can only imagine that Jeyne longed for Littlefinger’s death the way she longs for the deaths of those on her list.

“I’m sorry for what he did to you,” Arya offers.

Jeyne looks away. “Thank you, my lady.”

 _My lady_? Jeyne never called her that.

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Sansa murmurs to her sister.

Of course she doesn’t. Why would she? “I’m sorry,” Arya says earnestly.

Sansa shakes her head. “It’s all right. She’s already so much better than she was. But it makes me hate Cersei all the more.”

“Cersei?”

“She was the one who told Littlefinger to take her away.” Sansa’s face hardens. “She’s the reason for every horrible thing that’s happened to us.”

“When we take King’s Landing, we’ll put her pretty head on a pike and mount it on the walls,” Arya says vehemently.

“Yes.” Sansa smiles. “We will.”

.

They arrive at Winterfell at midday. Roose Bolton and his army are already waiting.

“I count ten thousand men,” Theon says as they draw nearer.

“Less than half our numbers,” Catelyn observes. “But my husband always said that five hundred men could hold Winterfell against ten thousand.”

“But can ten thousand men hold it against twenty thousand?” Sansa wonders.

No one answers her.

The army halts as Rickon, Catelyn, Arya, Sansa, Theon, Asha, Lord Yohn Royce, Lady Lyanna Mormont, and Lord Cerwyn ride forward. Roose Bolton and three people Arya doesn’t know--two men and a woman--also ride forward.

“Lady Catelyn,” Roose says in a calm, unaffected voice, as if their armies are not facing each other.

“Lord Bolton,” she returns crisply. “Lord Karstark. Lady Dustin.”

“You have not had the pleasure of meeting my son, Ramsay. He has recently been legitimized by our own King Tommen.”

“Another bastard,” Sansa comments.

Ramsay gives her an overly wide smile. “My beloved wife.”

“She’s not your wife,” Rickon says heatedly.

“And you’re not my king,” Ramsay returns. “The only king we recognize is Tommen Baratheon.”

“Not so long ago, you recognized my son Robb as your king.”

“Robb Stark is dead,” Roose returns.

“By your hand.”

Something almost like a smile crosses Roose’s face.

“You do not deny it?” Catelyn barks.

“There were many who wanted him dead.”

“But you were the only one who killed him.”

That almost-smile remains on Roose’s face. “The Lannisters have named me Warden in the North.”

“And the North has named my son king,” Catelyn counters. “Surrender now and we will spare your life by letting you take the black.”

“We will never surrender to the likes of you,” Lady Dustin spits.

“Aye,” Lord Karstark rumbles. “I bent the knee to one of your sons and lost two of my own because of it. I will not make that mistake again.”

“You may join Lord Bolton on the Wall,” Catelyn says coldly. “And you, Lady Dustin, may rot in a cell for all I care.”

“We will never surrender the North to you, or your boy king.”

“Then you can die defending it.” Catelyn holds her head high. “On the morrow, all twenty five hundred of our men will cut down your armies and take back Winterfell.” She tugs the reins on her horse and turns around.

“That will be the last time you turn your back on me, Catelyn Stark,” Roose calls.

Catelyn does not dignify that with a response.


	34. THEON XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway I've turned off email notifications so feel free to keep calling me a bitch, I'm not gonna see it.   
> I've also turned on the option to moderate comments so no one else is gonna see it either.

Theon spends much of the night in the command tent, poring over the wooden pieces they’ve set up to represent the armies. They ultimately decide that a pincer move would be the most effective, closing in on the Bolton forces until there’s nowhere left for them to go. It would be even better if they could get  _ behind _ the Boltons and into Winterfell, but there’s a slim chance of that happening.

For the first time since joining up with Lady Catelyn, Theon feels a bit nervous. He knows that they outnumber the Boltons by more than twice their numbers, but there’s still a great possibility that they could lose this battle. Even if they do win, Theon plans to be out there, and just because the Starks win doesn’t mean he won’t die.

He’s thinking about this as he leaves the tent, deciding to drink a horn of ale to help him sleep, when a slight figure steps in front of him, blocking his path. He blinks down at Jeyne Poole.

“What is it?” he asks, concerned at the worry on her face.

“Are you going to fight tomorrow?”

He blinks again. “Aye.”

“Rickon needs you,” she says pleadingly. “You can’t get killed.”

“Who says I’m going to get killed?” he asks, smiling. Seeing her fear has made his own lessen, and he feels at ease once more. He’s a Greyjoy; he hasn’t died yet, has he?

“Just because we have the numbers doesn’t mean we won’t lose our own men. The Boltons still have ten thousand men; that’s ten thousand men who could kill you,” she says, still in that pleading tone. 

“You’d have me sit back and watch with the women?” 

“I’d have you  _ live _ .”

Poor Jeyne. He knows the girl harbors feelings for him, and he understands why; she’s young, and he rescued her from a bad situation more than once. She and Sansa had always loved songs about heroic knights and their lady loves, and to her, he’s as close as she’ll get to a heroic knight. And, unlike most of the knights she dealt with in King’s Landing, he’s safe. He’ll never hurt her, never bed her, so she has nothing to fear from him.

But they both know nothing can ever be between them. She’s still a child.

_ I was a year younger than her when I had my first kiss, and I was the age she is now when I first bedded a woman _ . 

But it’s different for her; she never wants to be bedded again. He won’t deny that she’s pretty and charming, and in another time, he might have thought to court her, maybe even wed her. But she doesn’t want a husband, let alone a husband that may never come back from this war they’re fighting, so why even think about it?

Still. He  _ could _ die tomorrow, and what’s the harm in playing the heroic knight once in a while...especially on what may be his last night on this earth?

“If you’d have me live, give me a lock of your hair,” he says.

Her wide eyes narrow in suspicion. “What?”

“Give me a lock of your hair,” he repeats. “Isn’t that what ladies in the songs do to keep their lovers safe?”

She takes a step back. “Are you...are you mocking me?”

“What? No.” The smile slides off his face. “I’m serious.”

“You think it’s funny?” Hurt flashes across her face. “I thought you were different, Theon Greyjoy.”

“Jeyne, I don’t think it’s funny,” he insists. 

“We’re not lovers,” she says acidly. 

“No,” he allows. “We’re not. I misspoke. I only wanted to ask for a token to keep me safe in battle.”

She regards him with suspicion. 

“I swear it,” he continues. “I never meant to mock you.”

She bites her lip. “I...I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says, feeling bad. “I only thought...you’re right. I’ll be facing ten thousand men tomorrow, and I’ll need all the luck I can get. Just...say a prayer for me, alright?” He leaves her, stomach roiling.

.

Sleep doesn’t come to him until late that night, and even then it feels like he only closes his eyes for a moment before his squire wakes him. Dawn light is creeping into his tent, reminding him that soon, he’ll be facing off against the Boltons.

He only manages a few bites of bread before his stomach protests too much, ready to regurgitate its contents. He drinks some ale to soothe his belly and then lets his squire help him into his armor. Neither of them say a word, which is just as well; all Theon can think about is the battle ahead of him.

The squire, Jonnel, steps back at last, nodding when Theon meets his eyes.

He’s ready.

He grabs his helmet and leaves his tent, wishing he’d been able to sleep more last night. It makes no matter now; he’ll wake up soon enough, once he sees the Bolton army.

He’s about to mount his horse when a voice calls his name. He looks and sees Jeyne running towards him, clutching something in her hand.

“Here,” she says breathlessly, thrusting her fist towards him. He holds out his hand and she drops a folded handkerchief into it. Curious, he opens it to reveal a lock of dark brown hair. 

“You said you wanted it,” she says in a rush, cheeks flaming. “To protect you.”

“I did. I do,” he amends, smiling. He folds the handkerchief back up and tucks it beneath his breastplate. “Thank you, Jeyne.”

“You’re, um, welcome,” she mumbles, looking at her feet. 

He reaches for her hand and bends over it, kissing her knuckles. When he looks up, her face is beet-red. That makes him grin, and he swings onto his horse with all the confidence of a man who knows he cannot be killed. 

“What are you smiling about?” Asha asks when he rides up beside her.

“Nothing. I just...have a good feeling is all.”

“Let’s hope it’s not just a feeling.” 

They ride to join the other captains, grouped around the women and Rickon. Across the field, all ten thousand Bolton, Dustin, Karstark, and Hornwood men form up. Their own men have already fallen into formation; infantry in the first lines, cavalry behind them, and archers in the rear. 

It feels like nearly an hour that the two armies stare down one another, waiting for the other to make the first move. Theon knows that if their army moves first, they won’t have enough room to pull back and the Boltons could cut right through them. The Boltons know it, too, because they aren’t moving, waiting for the Stark men to give up and get it over with. 

“Why isn’t anything happening?” Rickon asks.

“It’s like  _ cyvasse _ , Your Grace; whoever moves first runs the risk of sacrificing their first units,” Lord Royce explains. “They’re waiting for us to lose patience. If we move forward too quickly, however, they’ll be able to cut right through us. They must make the first move if we are to win, and they know it, so they wait.”

“Well, someone has to move,” Rickon says stubbornly. 

“Could we not...feint?” Sansa suggests.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

“In  _ cyvasse _ , whoever goes second protects whichever tiles the other player’s units move towards. The wisest play, if you’re the first player, is to pretend you’re going in one direction and then change direction at the last minute, attacking the tiles they’ve left unprotected.”

It isn’t a bad idea, at that, but rather than feint with directions…

“Infantry!” Lord Royce booms. “Forward march!”

The infantry marches forward, shields raised and swords at the ready. Across the field, the Boltons’ own infantry breaks free from the mass, marching forward to meet their foes. The Stark infantry begins to jog, and the Bolton infantry does likewise. And then…

“Cavalry, forward!”

The Stark mounted men gallop forward, passing through the infantry. The Bolton men stumble to a halt, but it’s too late; the men on horse are already riding into them, cutting them down left, right, and center. 

And then something miraculous happens.

The men with the Hornwood banners raise their swords and shout, so loudly that Theon can hear them across the battlefield,

_ “THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!” _

He watches in disbelief as they turn on the Bolton men, cutting down the surprised soldiers. 

“Why are they doing that?” Arya asks, equally stunned.

“They never forgave Ramsay for what he did to Lady Hornwood,” Sansa realizes aloud. “They’re still loyal to the King in the North; they’ve been waiting for this moment.”

“Well, let’s not let them fight alone,” Asha says, drawing her sword. Theon draws his own, and together, they ride into the melee.

All around him, men are screaming and shouting, swords clanging against each other and thumping against shields. Every now and then, he’ll hear the  _ whoosh _ of arrows sailing overhead. And in front of him…

In front of him is a sea of red.

He swings his sword adeptly, the old drills Ser Rodrik made him do coming back with ease. His heart is pounding and sweat is pouring down his back, down his chest, down his forehead, nearly blinding him; he raises a hand to wipe across his brow and licks the sweat from his lip. It’s salty, and he takes heart in the reminder of his ancestry.  _ My blood is salt _ , he thinks.  _ I’m a Greyjoy, and we do not die so far from the sea. I will not die this day. _

Before he realizes it, his horse has carried him deep into the Bolton forces. They’re putting up a glorious fight, but a pointless one; all around them, Stark men are closing in, climbing over the growing pile of bodies to pen the Bolton men in against Winterfell.

The Boltons, Lady Dustin, and Lord Karstark sit in the center, and even from a distance, Theon can see their pale faces. Roose Bolton leans over to say something to his comrades, and after a moment, they turn their horses around, cantering through the open gate of Winterfell.

“They’re retreating!” Theon shouts to anyone who might be listening. The call is repeated, and all around him men begin cheering, the cheers growing when the gate closes. The Boltons have left their men outside to fend for themselves.

Some of the men realize this, because they drop their swords and surrender. Others tear off the battlefield, no longer willing to risk their lives for lords who won’t risk their own. 

Lord Royce rides up beside Theon, his bronze armor splattered with blood. 

“They turned tail and ran!” he trumpets. “Already my men have taken prisoners; those that don’t throw down their swords we’ll dispatch in no time. Our real task will be to get inside Winterfell.”

“What do you suggest?” Theon asks, panting. “We don’t have a battering ram, and the archers will get to us before we can climb over the walls.”

Lord Royce smiles. “ _ Cyvasse _ , Lord Theon,  _ cyvasse _ .”

Theon grins. “I know Winterfell like the back of my hand; let me take the ironborn over the godswood walls.”

“I was going to suggest that myself; I haven’t been able to scale a wall in years.” 

.

While Lord Royce leads the attack on the gates, his men covered in shields to save them from Bolton arrows, Theon leads the ironborn over the wall of the godswood. No one is back here--why would they be? So no one sees Theon, Asha, and their one hundred ironborn scale the walls, dropping down into the godswood quiet as can be. The gate into the yard is open, and Theon and the others pass easily through it.

Serving girls and stable boys leap out of the way when they see the intruders, eyes wide and hopeful. They recognize Theon, and he smiles at them as if to say, “We’re taking back our home.”

Climbing up to the battlements proves to be ludicrously easy. There are so few men in Winterfell, and those that remain are focused entirely on the mock-siege led by Lord Royce. Most of them don’t see the ironborn until their throats have been slit. 

Five of the men make the easy leap down to the yard, where they meet no resistance; the handful of soldiers who made it inside with the Bolton party throw down their weapons and allow the ironborn to pull open the gates. 

Roose and Ramsay Bolton, Lady Dustin, and Lord Karstark all stand in the center of the yard in shock and dismay, watching the Stark men surround them. 

“Winterfell is ours!” Theon bellows, and the Stark men erupt in cheers.

The crowd parts as Rickon and the women ride into the yard, the direwolves at their heels. Rickon, wearing his crown and looking down at the traitors, truly looks like Ned Stark’s son.

“We will not surrender,” Lord Karstark spits.

“I won’t accept a surrender,” Rickon says, sounding older than his years. “You killed my brother and his wife, turned your cloaks, and took my home. You broke your vows. You seized Lady Hornwood and left her to starve. You would have forced my sister to wed you had Lord Greyjoy not saved us. In time you would have killed me. You will get no mercy from the King in the North.”

“We want none,” Lady Dustin says coldly. “Lock me in a cell and be done with it.”

“You mistake me, Lady Dustin. You will get  _ no _ mercy from the King in the North.” He nods at Brienne, who slides off her horse. Lady Dustin goes pale, but to her credit, she does not resist the men who seize her. In fact, when they bring out the block, she kneels in front of it of her own volition, stretching her neck over the block.

Brienne cuts a clean stroke, parting Lady Dustin’s head from her shoulders with grace. 

Lord Karstark is next. He looks up at Rickon as they wrestle him to the ground. “Kill me and be cursed. You are no king of mine.”

Off comes his head.

They kill Ramsay Snow next, making his father watch so that he might understand what he’s lost. The bastard wears a smile on his face even after Brienne takes his head.

Roose goes last.

“Any last words?” Brienne asks, as she’s done with the last three. 

He looks up at Catelyn. “Do you know, I don’t regret any of it.”

She stares icily back at him.

Brienne removes his head with one swift stroke. As it rolls into the mud, the Starks cheer. 

_ “THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!” _

Theon nearly collapses against the wall in relief.

Winterfell belongs to the Starks once more.


	35. JEYNE VIII

It feels good to be in Winterfell again.

The servants are all happy to have the Starks back, and they bustle about settling everyone in and feeding the enormous army. 

The Boltons left a number of problems behind, not least of which is Roose Bolton’s wife, Walda; ironically, one of Walder Frey’s many granddaughters. The question of what to do with the woman wouldn’t be quite so troubling if it weren’t for the fact that she’s pregnant with a little Bolton.

They keep Walda confined in Rickon’s old chamber, moving the king to Lord Eddard’s room--the best and most spacious bedchamber in the castle, as befits a king. 

Walda bears it with grace, patiently awaiting the day when Rickon will be able to decide what to do with her. Jeyne tends to her more often than not, feeling a special kind of sympathy for the other woman. She knows what it’s like to be locked away somewhere because no one knows what to do with her. She tells Walda as much, and the other woman gives her a tremulous smile because of it. 

“Do you think they’ll kill me?” she asks Jeyne one day.

“No,” Jeyne says honestly. “It isn’t their way. And besides, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m carrying a Bolton child, though,” Walda says quietly. “And if it’s a son…”

“If it’s a son, you’ll raise him not to seek vengeance for his father’s death.”

“They won’t let me raise him. They’ll take him away, have him fostered somewhere by a lord who will be his gaoler.” Walda’s voice grows small.

Jeyne grasps Walda’s hands. “They may be merciful. Let me intercede on your behalf. I’m close to the Starks--perhaps they’ll listen.”

“Aye. Perhaps.”

.

“Why do you care what happens to her?”

“Because she’s like us, Sansa.” Jeyne clasps her hands together. “She’s a prisoner to her family’s enemy. Why should she have to pay for Roose Bolton’s crimes?”

“Because she’s his  _ wife _ ,” Sansa points out, though she looks hesitant.

“Roose Bolton chose her because of her dowry. She had no say in the matter. She followed her husband north and let him put a child in her the way she was taught to--the way we were  _ all _ taught to. That was you once, and it could be you again.”

Sansa bites her lip. “What do you think we should do with her?”

“Show mercy, and don’t judge her for her husband’s crimes. She’s Walder Frey’s granddaughter; if we show kindness to her when we could have chosen cruelty, Walder Frey will be more likely to forgive your family for Robb’s slight. He was furious at Robb for not marrying one of his daughters, but he may show respect for the king who pardons his granddaughter.”

Sansa considers this. “I’ll speak to my mother. But you’d better tell Lady Walda she ought to pray for a daughter; it will make things so much easier.”

.

As soon as they’re able, Rickon and Catelyn hold court in the Great Hall. With a crown on his head and a direwolf at his feet, little Rickon looks less like a third son and more like someone born to rule.

He sits at the center of the long table, his mother on one side and Maester Luwin on the other. Sansa and Arya sit beside their mother, and Jeyne stands in the back, watching the proceedings.

Lady Walda is the first to be seen. As Roose Bolton’s widow and mother to his future child, there is a great deal of curiosity as to what will happen to her. She makes a dainty curtsy and stands before Rickon, hands clasped over her belly.

“Lady Walda,” Rickon says, his voice ringing in the hall. “You are carrying Roose Bolton’s child, is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she says demurely. “I pray for a daughter.”

“But if you should have a son, he will inherit the Dreadfort.”

“That is for you to decide, Your Grace.”

Catelyn murmurs something to her son.

“Is that your wish? For your son to inherit the Dreadfort?”

Walda shakes her head. “My wish is to have my child with me, Your Grace. Send me away if you like, make me a captive, only don’t take my child from me.”

Rickon considers this. “Would you like to go back to your family at the Twins, Lady Walda?”

“No,” she says, so quickly it surprises the onlookers. “Please, don’t send me there, anything but that.”

_ Poor lady _ , Jeyne thinks. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa says, drawing all eyes to her. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Yes,” Rickon says, eyes wide as he looks at his sister.

“Perhaps if Lady Walda forswore all claim to the Bolton lands and titles, she could be allowed to live freely with her child. They could still wear the Bolton name, and the crown could make certain provisions for a knighthood or a dowry or some such.”

Rickon turns back to Lady Walda. “Would you agree to this, Lady Walda?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Walda says in a rush. “Please, I only want my child. I only...I have nowhere to go.”

“Perhaps Lady Walda and her child could go to Riverrun,” Lady Catelyn suggests. “Under the care of my brother, Lord Edmure. He would ensure that Lady Walda and her child would want for nothing, and it may be a comfort to Lord Frey after King Robb broke his vow.” 

Jeyne can hear the grief in Lady Catelyn’s voice when she says this, but she knows it’s for the best. Robb  _ did _ break his vow, and Lord Frey is not like to forget. But if his granddaughter, the wife of a traitor, is granted leniency and allowed to live under the care of the Lord Paramount of the Trident, well…

“I would like that very much, Your Grace,” Walda says earnestly. “My family would be honored by such an arrangement, and I would be of service to Lord Edmure.”

Rickon inclines his head. “Then it will be done. Maester Luwin, please write to my uncle and tell him of this arrangement.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Walda dips into a deep curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace!” She shuffles away to watch the rest of the proceedings.

The Karstark clan is called to the front next. Arnolf, Lord Rickard’s uncle and castellan, stands with his two sons and Lord Rickard’s daughter, Alys.

“Your Grace,” Alys Karstark says before Rickon can begin. “May I speak?”

Rickon glances at his mother, who nods. 

“Very well, Lady Karstark.”

She draws herself up, standing apart from her great-uncle and his sons. “Your Grace, by rights, Karhold passes to my older brother, Harrion. He’s a captive of the Lannisters now, so he is unable to claim his birthright. My great-uncle here plans to marry me to his son Cregan and have Harrion murdered so that Karhold will pass to him.”

“That’s a lie!” Arnolf bellows, reaching for Alys, but guards block his way.

“Do you have proof of this, Lady Alys?” Catelyn asks.

Alys fishes a piece of parchment out of her pocket. “The message he meant to send to Harrion’s captors.”

“How did you get your hands on that?” Arnolf spits.

Alys hands the paper to Lady Catelyn, who reads it with a sigh. “Lady Alys appears to be telling the truth.”

“She’s a liar!” Cregan Karstark shouts, but everyone can see the truth on his face. 

“You deny her accusation, then?”

Arnolf wisely remains silent.

“I understand the Night’s Watch is in need of men,” Catelyn says crisply. “Perhaps we should send them north, Your Grace.”

“Yes,” Rickon agrees. “The Wall it is.”

Guards take the three Karstark men away.

“Well, Lady Alys,” Rickon says. “Will you bend the knee?”

She kneels. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“And you don’t want revenge for your father’s death?” Sansa presses.

Alys shakes her head. “My father was much aggrieved after losing my brothers. I think, in some ways, he didn’t know how to be hurt, so he chose to be angry. I begged him not to go against the Starks, our own kin, but he was too deep in anger by then. I want no vengeance for his death; I only want my brother Harrion to be delivered safely home.”

“And we shall do all in our power to free him when our troops move south,” Rickon assures her. “Thank you, Lady Alys.”

She inclines her head before rising, going to the side to take her place with the others.

There are captains and commanders to deal with; they all bend the knee and proclaim Rickon their rightful king. Catelyn counsels mercy; they were only following orders, after all. The prisoners they took at the battle are all given the choice to bend the knee or take the black, and all choose to bend the knee. 

When the last of the prisoners have been pardoned, Rickon calls forward Asha Greyjoy. The ironborn commander comes forward, hands clasped before her.

“Lady Greyjoy,” Rickon begins. “You have done the North a great service. Your ironborn scaled the walls of Winterfell and took the castle when the Boltons retreated. The battle would have waged on for days had you not risked all to end it. I am in your debt.”

“The debt can be repaid.” 

“You speak of the Seastone Chair?” Catelyn asks, though she already knows. Theon had already brought up the issue privately.

Asha nods. “Yes, my lady. The Seastone Chair is mine by right, but my murderous uncle took it. He killed my father and now he means to kill me. I would ask the North’s aid as I overthrow my uncle and take the throne for myself.”

“Why should the North aid a woman who defies her king, the  _ true _ king, to put a crown on her own head?” Lord Royce wants to know.

“Robert Baratheon was the true king,” Asha points out. “Then it was Joffrey, who you all say is not the real king, and then Robb Stark was named King in the North. My father and I broke no vows; he did not swear fealty to Joffrey, or to Robb Stark, and neither did I.”

“You will not swear fealty to King Rickon now?”

“I offer an alliance. The Manderlys are building a navy, but that will only serve on the Narrow Sea. The western coast is completely exposed.”

“Because we have always relied on the Iron Islands to protect it.”

“And you can again...if you acknowledge me as Queen of the Iron Islands.”

Jeyne hears some discontent mumbling from the crowd.

“Euron will never agree to bend the knee,” Asha continues, unperturbed. “You’ll have to defeat him either way. But if you acknowledge me as queen, I swear to fight for you.”

“And after the war? Will you go back to reaving, raiding, and raping?”

“Not in the North,” Asha says with a small smile. “We will honor our alliance.” She takes a step forward. “The Iron Islands are worth nothing to the North. Our soil is infertile; we can grow no crops, and the fish that comes from White Harbor and the Stony Shore is better than anything we can offer. Our allegiance is not vital to the North. Hell, even we don’t like the Iron Islands; we spend our days on the sea in search of bigger and better things. What is the harm in naming me queen?”

Rickon squirms in his seat. He likes Asha immensely, and if he had his way, he would name Asha queen. But the other lords wouldn’t like that, and so he must make them feel that she has earned it.

“We cannot spare the men to overthrow Euron until the war against the Lannisters is won,” Rickon says. “If you help us, then when the war is over, we’ll overthrow Euron and put you on the Seastone Chair.”

Some of the lords murmur at this, but Asha bows. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will not let you down.” Before she can melt into the crowd, however, one of the men stands up.

“Balon Greyjoy has a son,” he points out. “Instead of naming his daughter queen, shouldn’t we name his son king?”

Theon comes forward. “Asha is my older sister, and what’s more, she was raised on the Iron Islands. She’s a commander and her men are loyal to her. I grew up here, in Winterfell. I would be a terrible leader of the ironborn.”

A few men chuckle.

He takes a deep breath. “And what’s more...I have a request for King Rickon, one that, if granted, would not allow me to become King of the Iron Islands.”

Jeyne watches in interest, curious to see what Theon’s request may be.

“Name your request,” Rickon urges. “I owe you my life, and Sansa’s.”

Theon kneels. “Your Grace, you have no kingsguard. I know it is not the custom of the Kings in the North, but your brother Robb had no kingsguard either. He died, and Ramsay Snow would have killed you too had I not gotten to Winterfell in time. I ask you to consider a kingsguard of your own, men and women loyal to you and who would give their lives for yours.”

Jeyne’s eyes widen.  _ Kingsguard _ ? The Kings in the North never had a kingsguard; that tradition had begun with Aegon. Seven knights for the seven gods. Men who give up their lands and titles, men who never marry or father children so that nothing will persuade them to betray their king. This is truly what Theon wants?

The Starks seem just as stunned as Jeyne. 

“And...you wish to be part of this kingsguard?” Lady Catelyn asks.

“Yes, my lady. Lord Stark was a better father to me than my own, and King Robb was a brother to me. I have no place on the Iron Islands. My place is by our king, protecting him.”

The Starks all glance at each other.

“Well...I don’t see why not,” Catelyn says slowly. “You...understand what this means, Theon?”

“I do, my lady,” he assures her. “I’ve thought long and hard about it. Nothing would make me happier nor bring me greater honor than to serve my king in this manner.”

Catelyn looks at Rickon. “Well, my son? What do you think of Theon’s proposal?”

Though Jeyne can only see part of Rickon’s face, she can see that he’s thinking hard. 

“I...accept,” the boy king says slowly. In a surer voice, he adds, “Theon Greyjoy, I name you Lord Commander of my Kingsguard, from this day until the end of your days.”

Cheers go up in the Great Hall as Theon rises, beaming. 

_ Lord Commander of the Kingsguard _ . 

He will never marry, will never father children...and somehow, that makes Jeyne feel better. She will not have to wither in jealousy as he marries another woman and gets sons on her, will never have to compare herself to his lady wife or weep bitter tears when he sails for his home on Pyke. He will spend the rest of his life in service to the Starks, just like Jeyne. He will always be around.

_ He’ll never be mine. But he’ll never be another woman’s, either. _

  
  



	36. SANSA IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this might be the last update for a wee bit; that teaser trailer for Star Wars has got me back on my Star Wars bullshit and this is the last chapter I've written. That being said, the premiere tomorrow will probably get me back on my GoT bullshit? So...yeah.

Sansa joins the rest of her family on the wooden walkways of the keep, watching the men bustle across the yard. In a few days’ time they’ll ride south for the Riverlands, where they’ll combine their forces with the other northerners and with Stannis and march south to King’s Landing. Lady Walda will go with them to Riverrun, where Edmure will take her in. 

“That was a good idea,” Sansa compliments her mother. 

“I know Lord Frey better than most; having his granddaughter live in Riverrun as an honored guest might soothe that prickly nature of his. And it will be good for Walda.”

“I hear they call her Fat Walda at the Twins.”

“Arya!”

“It’s true!” Arya protests. “There are so many Waldas that they have nicknames to keep them all straight, and they call her Fat Walda.”

“ _ Lady _ Walda is our guest and should be treated with respect.”

“I am respectful,” Arya huffs. “I’m just saying that they call her Fat Walda.”

“Well, now they can call her Walda Bolton,” Sansa says. 

“She’s kind,” Rickon comments. “And pretty.”

“She is both those things,” Catelyn agrees. “And, I believe, grateful for your leniency. You did well, holding your first court.”

“And you came out of it with a kingsguard,” Sansa teases.

“Will you have seven? Like the kings in the south?” Arya asks.

“I don’t know,” Rickon says, troubled. “The North follows the old gods, and there are more than seven old gods.”

“You can’t have a kingsguard for every old god,” Arya points out. “That would be too many.”

“Well, so far, I only have one.”

“If I may suggest a second member of your kingsguard,” Catelyn says, nodding her head towards Brienne, who’s crossing the yard at that moment. 

“Brienne?” Rickon asks in surprise. 

“She swore an oath to protect me some time ago, and she has been faithful to her oath. She has followed us over hill and dale. She served in Renly Baratheon’s kingsguard until his death; I believe she would be honored by such an appointment.”

“And no one’s like to get through her,” Arya says admiringly. 

Rickon nods. “She would be a good member of the kingsguard. Alright.”

“Your Grace.”

The family looks up at Maester Luwin, who shuffles towards them. “You have visitors from the Wall, including your brother, Jon.”

“Jon?” Rickon asks excitedly.

Catelyn purses her lips. 

“Did he say why he’s here?” Sansa asks, noticing her mother’s reaction. 

“He only said that he must speak with you all at once.”

Rickon fairly bounds for the receiving hall, his mother and sisters hurrying after him. 

Jon is standing in the center of the hall, surrounded by twenty men; some in black, and others in mismatched furs. 

“Jon!” Rickon cries, running towards his brother. 

Jon grins, picking up the boy and hugging him tight. He looks well, Sansa notes; he’s grown out his thick hair, and the hair on his face is fuller than it was before. He seems taller, somehow, though he’s still shorter than her, and beneath all that black he has the build of a man, not a boy. 

He hugs Arya next, the little sister he always loved so much. They’d always been close, closer than any of the siblings. It must have been hard, the day they parted. 

When it’s Sansa’s turn, she gives him a hug, though not so tender as her brother and sister--she and Jon had never been close. She smiles at him. “What brings you here?” 

His smile fades. “A matter of some urgency.” He steps back, gesturing at the men with him. “These are my brothers of the Night’s Watch...and Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

“Beyond the Wall?” Sansa repeats.

“Wildlings!” Arya whispers.

A long-faced man with black hair nods. “Aye, little lady; wildlings.”

“Why have you brought wildlings into our home?” Catelyn asks angrily, drawing Rickon against her. 

Jon’s face is hard at he looks at his stepmother. If Sansa and Jon had never been close, Jon and Catelyn had loathed each other. She’d never been kind to him, had always resented his presence at Winterfell. He was the result of her husband’s infidelity, the woman he’d bedded in his wife’s absence. Of course Catelyn had no love for Jon; and he, in turn, had no love for her, the woman who’d made him feel outcast and unwelcome his whole life.

“Because they need our help.” Jon takes a deep breath. “What I’m about to say...will sound unbelievable. I just need you to trust me.”

Catelyn’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but Rickon nods encouragingly. “Tell us, Jon.”

He takes another deep breath. “The stories Old Nan used to tell us about white walkers...they’re real. I’ve seen them. They’re raising an Army of the Dead. They can...turn corpses, make them soldiers for their army. And they’ll stop at nothing to kill us all.”

“You’re mad,” Catelyn says at once, looking frightened.

“He’s not.” The man with a long face and black hair comes forward. “I used to be a brother of the Night’s Watch, Lady Stark. Why I left makes no difference, but mark my words, the Army of the Dead is real, and it’s coming for all of us.”

“Why should I trust the word of a traitor who joined the wildlings?” Catelyn demands.

“I had no choice when it came to the Night’s Watch,” says the man, who Sansa takes to be Mance Rayder. “My father was a man of the Night’s Watch, and my mother was a wildling. When the Night’s Watch put my mother to the sword, they took me to Castle Black and raised me to become one of them. I never had a choice. Leaving the Night’s Watch  _ was _ my choice. But uniting the wildlings behind one banner, working to get past the Wall...that wasn’t a choice. That was a necessity. And it’s necessity that brings us to your doorstep now.”

“You’ve seen them?” Rickon asks Jon softly.

He nods. “Aye. I’ve fought them. We can kill them with fire, and we can kill them with dragonglass.”

Sansa trades a look with Arya. The other girl’s eyes are wide, and not a little fearful.

“Won’t the Wall keep them out?” Catelyn asks doubtfully.

“It will hold...for a time,” Mance Rayder says. “In the meantime, men, women, and children are being slaughtered by the hundreds.”

“What do you want from us?” Catelyn asks. 

“We want the King in the North to grant citizenship to all the freefolk. We mean no harm. We will keep to ourselves, and fight when the King in the North calls. We only ask for a place to live and wait.”

Rickon looks up at his mother. “I don’t see the problem with that.”

Catelyn purses her lips again.

“I know you don’t like me,” Jon says to Catelyn, whose lips grow even thinner. “That’s alright. I don’t like you very much either. But this goes beyond my father. This goes beyond any of us. These are innocent people being killed by an enemy that gives no quarter. Don’t let your pride be the reason they continue to die.”

Catelyn looks furious.

“He’s right,” Sansa says softly, knowing her mother will listen to her. “If they’re right about the white walkers, we need to take these people in. We can’t stand idly by while they die. If the Army of the Dead does pass the Wall, we’ll need their help in defeating them.”

Catelyn looks away. 

“Where would they live?” Rickon asks Jon.

“I’ve thought of that. The Gift has always belonged to the men of the Night’s Watch, but in recent years, there haven’t been enough brothers to maintain it. If we grant it to the freefolk, they can build farms and work their own land. They won’t be in the North proper, so none of the Northerners can object to their presence.”

Rickon looks at his mother. “I think it’s a good idea.”

She’s still looking away when she says, “You are the king.”

Rickon turns back to his brother. “I will grant citizenship to all w--freefolk who pass below the Wall. They must not attack anyone, and they must answer the call when given.”

Jon looks at Mance Rayder, who inclines his head. “You have my word, Your Grace. All this shall be done.”

Rickon’s face clears. “Good.”

“Will you stay here tonight?” Sansa asks, remembering her courtesies. 

“We would be honored,” Mance Rayder says.

Jon looks relieved. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“I’ll have the steward prepare rooms,” Catelyn says icily, leaving the room.

Sansa turns to Jon, ashamed. “I’m sorry about her.”

He shakes his head. “It’s alright. She’d hoped she’d seen the last of me, and now I’m bringing people she used to see as her enemies into the North.”

“Are you hungry?” Sansa asks the group at large.

“Starving,” a redheaded man with a luscious beard answers. 

Sansa smiles at him. “This way.”

.

Over hot stew and hard bread, Jon regales the Stark children with all that has happened since they parted. Sansa is amazed to hear about his adventures beyond the Wall, and his adventures climbing over it. Even more amazed is she to hear that after the battle of the Wall, he and Mance Rayder made peace.

When he’s told his story, the siblings take their turn updating him on their own adventures, from King’s Landing to Winterfell. He looks impressed, and not a little relieved that they’re alright and back together.

“Did you see Bran?” Rickon asks. “When he went north?”

Jon shakes his head. “No. If he went beyond the Wall, he must have gone a different way.”

Jeyne enters then, eyes wide as she takes in the party. “Pardon, Your Grace, my ladies; I was sent to show our guests to their rooms. I’m afraid there isn’t much with so many people here, but we have found accommodations for all of you.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine; we’ve been sleeping on nought but hard ground these last few nights,” Mance Rayder says kindly, getting up to follow Jeyne. 

Sansa catches Jon’s sleeve as he gets up. “I am sorry. For my mother. I know...I know she hasn’t been kind…”

He shakes his head, giving her a small, sad smile. “It’s alright, Sansa. Thank you.” 

As she watches him go, Sansa can’t help feeling wretched for poor Jon. Her mother has never been kind to Jon, and she’d taught her daughter to do the same. It isn’t Jon’s fault that their father was unfaithful. He didn’t deserve to be outcast and treated like a criminal.

_ He is my brother. I must be kinder to him. _

.

Sansa tells Jeyne all about Jon and the wildlings as they ready for dinner. 

“I can’t believe the white walkers are real,” Jeyne says skeptically.

“All twenty of those men believe in them. They’ve seen them.”

Jeyne is quiet for a moment. “Do you think the Wall will keep them back? Wasn’t it built with magic from the Children of the Forest?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa says truthfully. “I thought all that was just a story Old Nan used to tell, but now...I don’t know. If the white walkers are real, the magic must be real, but...why would the white walkers march south if they know the Wall can’t be destroyed?”

“Because they know it can be.”

“Yes,” Sansa murmurs. “Because they know it can be.”

.

After dinner, Sansa follows her mother up to the solar. Sometimes they read before bed, or just sit by the fire and talk. Tonight, Sansa wants to talk.

“You were unkind to Jon today.”

Catelyn sighs as she opens the solar door. A fire is already crackling, and Catelyn takes a seat beside it. 

“He came into my home and began speaking nonsense.”

“This used to be his home, too,” Sansa points out.

“But it’s not anymore.”

Sansa kneels before her mother. “Mother, I understand why you don’t like Jon. He will always be a reminder of Father’s infidelity, and I don’t doubt that hurts. But that was years ago. Father loved  _ you, _ he had five children by  _ you _ . Even if he didn’t...it isn’t Jon’s fault that he was born. You don’t have to be unkind to him.”

Catelyn stares into the fire for a long moment. “You know, the mad thing is...I wished him dead when he was a little boy. I wanted him to die so I wouldn’t have to look at him anymore.”

Sansa stares at her mother, horrified.

“And then he became ill. Terribly ill. Maester Luwin thought he might die. And I felt ashamed. I sat by his bedside and prayed to the gods. I made a prayer wheel for him, and I told the gods that if they spared his life, I would ask your father to legitimize him. Let them say Ned Stark had four sons, not three.” She shakes her head. “But when he woke up, I forgot my promise. I was filled with hatred again. I’ll never be able to look at him and not wonder about his mother. If your father loved her, if he had known her before he married me. If he’d been drunk and she’d been some whore that Robert Baratheon foisted upon him.”

“Lots of men have bastards,” Sansa says quietly. “It isn’t  _ right _ , but Father only had Jon, and that was at the beginning when you barely knew each other--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Catelyn says, still looking into the fire. “Jon...looks like your father, and to think that he’s still here and your father lies in the crypts…”

Sansa stands up. “It isn’t Jon’s fault.”

“I know.”

Sansa leaves her mother to stare into the fire.

  
  



	37. ASHA I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you read that right--an Asha chapter! I've known for a while I'd need to add in other POVs and I'm excited to explore a new corner of the world with our favorite queen.
> 
> Because of some reviews I'm STILL getting, I want to take this time to ask you guys to please stop sending rude/nitpicky comments! Even if you think you're helping, you're not! I write this fic for free on my own time and for the sole enjoyment of myself and my best friend. I'm not trying to improve as a writer and I'm not in the market for a beta reader. Please stop leaving "well actually" comments and contradicting me. If you don't like it, don't waste the energy of commenting! Thanks!

They can see the lights from Pyke as they draw nearer to the island. Asha takes a deep breath, her hands gripping the rigging she’s holding onto. 

“Are you sure this is wise?” 

She doesn’t even need to look to know that it’s Qarl the Maid asking her a question.

“Wise? No. Satisfying? Yes.”

He chuckles. “Satisfying, aye, but do you think it will work?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t give it a try.” 

.

Her men disperse when they make port. They all have their orders, and she knows they won’t fail her. The men from White Harbor and Bear Island remain onboard, minding the ships.

As for Asha, she heads straight for the keep. She has business to take care of.

“Lady Asha!” the steward says, eyes wide. “You’re home--”

“Not for long,” she says, pushing past him. 

She’s grown up on Pyke, spent all her life here, and she knows exactly where to find the castellan’s room. No one stops her as she strides down the corridor and pushes open his door. 

Erik Ironmaker doesn’t wake until she’s straddling him, her knife at his throat. His eyes go comically wide.

“Asha?” he sputters, writhing on the bed. 

“Sorry, Erik,” she says softly. “Marriage just isn’t for me.” 

And with that, she slides her knife across his throat. 

.

There’s a fair crowd of men gathered in the early dawn light. Asha looks them over.

“I am Asha Greyjoy,” she says, her voice carrying so that all of them can hear her perfectly. “My father was Balon Greyjoy. I am his oldest child and heir. My brother Theon serves in King Rickon’s kingsguard. By rights, the Seastone Chair should go to me. Not my murderous Uncle Euron, not my weakling uncle Victarion.”

A few of the men chuckle. 

“I am your rightful queen. The  _ North _ recognizes me as your rightful queen. Do you think they’ll give that same recognition to my uncles? Do you think they won’t come after Euron when they’ve won the war against the Lannisters?”

The men exchange looks.

“Sail with me. Fight with me. Help the Starks defeat the Lannisters, and then help me defeat Euron.” She pauses. “Who’s with me?”

“We are!”

She smiles. “Who’s with me?”

“We are!” they shout, louder.

“Then come with me!”

They cheer and clamber into the boats, heading for the ships left by Euron and Victarion. And as for her uncles...well. Asha will soon have more ships than the two of them combined.

.

It doesn’t take long to catch up with Euron. His men have been reaving, raiding, and raping their way along the coast, and Asha’s crew has not stopped at all. 

The  _ Silence _ and half of the Iron Fleet are moored off the Shield Islands. Asha has her own fleet wait until nightfall before they glide into the bay, lights dimmed and men quiet as can be so no one knows they’re coming. 

What few sentries remain on the ships are dealt with quickly and easily, arrows and throwing knives knocking them to the ground with a dull thud. She sends two or three men onto each ship, lighting the sails on fire; they start at the port and work their way back to her fleet. There’s only one ship Asha spares.

The  _ Silence _ .

That one, she takes for herself. 

Her fleet sails south, their way lit by the blaze of a hundred ships.

.

They pass through the Redwyne Straits without even stopping at the Arbor. 

“We could get some good loot,” one of the men grumbles.

“We could,” Asha agrees. “But we don’t have time for that. We don’t stop until we reach Sunspear.”

“You really think we can take King’s Landing with twelve ships?”

“No,” Asha admits. “But we can cut them off with twelve ships and the Dornish navy while Stannis marches on the city.”

“Why are we helping so many kings? I thought you wanted to be queen.”

Asha turns to face him, and the small group of men listening. “I don’t  _ want _ to be queen; I  _ am _ queen. But you’ve said yourself, we only have twelve ships. We need to help these other kings if I’m to rule.” She looks around at the men. “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

None of them say a word. 

She nods. “Good.” She starts for her cabin, stops, and looks at Qarl the Maid. “Your queen has need of you.” She strides down to her cabin, knowing he’ll follow. 

He always does.

.

They don’t even make it to Sunspear before Dornish ships surround them. Asha greets them calmly, raising a white sail to show that she comes in peace. 

One of the Dornish vessels,  _ Dornish Summer _ , moves forward, the captain leaning over the side.

“What brings the ironborn so close to Dorne?”

“I come with an offer from King Rickon Stark and King Stannis Baratheon,” Asha calls back.

The captain examines her. “Who should I say is offering?”

She straightens her back. “Asha Greyjoy-- _ Queen _ of the Iron Islands.”

The captain smiles and bows his head. “Very well, Queen Asha.”

.

The Dornish fleet accompanies them to Sunspear. Asha’s men wait on their ships as an armed escort takes her up to the castle. 

A man in a wheelchair greets her on a terrace. Beside him is a beautiful woman around Asha’s age, and behind them is a tall, broad-shouldered man with black skin--clearly from across the sea. He carries a spear and stands closer than any of the other guards.

“Queen Asha,” the man in the wheelchair says, extending his hand. “I am Prince Doran Martell, and this is my daughter, Arianne.”

“My lord,” she greets, allowing him to kiss her hand. 

“My men tell me you bring an offer from King Rickon and King Stannis.”

“I do.”

“Then by all means, let us hear it.” He gestures for her to join him at his table. “You have come at a...shall we say, curious time, Queen Asha.”

“How so?”

A servant pours a rich Dornish red for Asha. Knowing it would be rude not to drink, Asha lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip.

“We have just had word from my son, Quentyn. He went east to Meereen to woo Daenerys Targaryen.”

Asha raises her eyebrows. “Why would he do that, I wonder?” 

“Because I told him to.” Prince Doran’s face falls. “He was...unsuccessful. Burned alive by her dragons.”

Asha’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Her  _ dragons _ ? So the stories are true?”

“They appear to be.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Prince Doran.”

He bows his head. “Thank you. We were...relying on him.”

“May I ask...why were you trying to woo Daenerys Targaryen? Did the Targaryens not treat your sister...poorly?” 

“Rhaegar Targaryen abandoned my sister, it is true. But the real crimes against her were committed by Tywin Lannister and his pet, Gregor Clegane. Do you know what he did to my sister, Queen Asha?”

Asha takes a sip of her wine. “I’ve heard stories.”

Prince Doran leans forward. “You think I am content to wait on Tywin Lannister’s grandson?”

“I don’t know, Prince Doran; you do foster his granddaughter here, do you not?”

Prince Doran leans back. “It is true. Tyrion Lannister requested Myrcella to be sent here, and what could we do but agree?”

“I take it you don’t like the Lannisters.” 

He takes a sip of his own wine. “Would you?”

“No.” She sets down her cup. “Which is why I come to you now. You know as well as I do that Tommen and Myrcella are bastards. The rightful heir to the throne is Stannis Baratheon.” 

“The  _ rightful heir _ is Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Whose dragons just killed your son.” 

“She’s right, Father,” Arianne says. “We have waited too long. Viserys, Daenerys, Quentyn...Trystane and I are all you have left, and Trystane is betrothed to Myrcella.” 

“An arrangement that doesn’t have to last,” Asha says softly. “If the Lannisters are overthrown.”

Prince Doran shifts in his seat. “What are you suggesting, Queen Asha?”

“Sail your ships to King’s Landing and blockade the city while your infantry marches north. Join forces with Stannis and force Cersei to pay for her crimes.”

“Robert Baratheon allied himself with Tywin Lannister--”

“Whose daughter bore another man’s children and then had him killed,” Asha says pointedly. “He’s dead. Stannis is not his brother. He hates the Lannisters just as much as you do. You lost a sister; he lost a brother. Marry your son to his daughter and see a child of Dorne on the Iron Throne, the way it ought to have been.”

Prince Doran considers her. “You make a compelling point, Queen Asha.”

“Well?” She drinks from her cup. 

He looks at his daughter, who gives him an expression laden with meaning. He turns back to Asha. “Will you stay with us tonight, Queen Asha?”

Asha considers his offer. If Doran still wants an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, he could kill Asha in her sleep and deliver her head to Euron. Even if he wanted to be a coward and hide behind his walls, he could have her killed and pledge loyalty to the Lannisters.

She looks at Arianne Martell. There’s fire in her eyes and iron in her jaw. She’s a stubborn one, Asha can tell. Stubborn and full of righteous wrath. Even if Prince Doran wants to have her killed, Arianne won’t let him. She has not forgiven the dragon queen for the loss of her brother. And besides, putting Stannis on the throne would be to her benefit; if Trystane Martell truly marries Shireen Baratheon, that would make Arianne the Princess of Dorne. 

Asha smiles at Prince Doran. “It would be my pleasure.”

.

Asha sends a man to her fleet to tell them to wait for her. Prince Doran sends food and Dornish wine to all of her men, for which she thanks him over dinner. 

“Well, we are happy to have ironborn who don’t intend to raid our shores,” he says with a small smile.

Trystane sits sullenly beside Asha, picking listlessly at his food. Doran notices Asha’s attention and leans over.

“Trystane,” he murmurs. “Behave.”

Trystane scowls at his father. “May I be excused?”

The prince looks annoyed, but he waves his hand in dismissal. Trystane stands up and turns to Asha with a hard face. “I beg your pardon, Lady Asha.”

“ _ Queen _ Asha,” Arianne corrects.

Trystane draws himself up to his fullest height. “The only queen I know is  _ Myrcella _ .” And with that, he leaves.

“I apologize for my son,” Prince Doran says, unable to meet Asha’s eye. “He is fond of Myrcella.”

“He is young,” Asha offers. “Things change.”

“Quite right, Queen Asha.” Prince Doran raises his goblet. “A toast to youth and all its follies.”

Asha lifts her own goblet, glancing at Arianne for her reaction. The princess gives her a subtle nod. Asha smiles and drinks deeply from her goblet. 

She’s sure stone-faced Shireen Baratheon is not quite as pretty as golden-haired Myrcella Lannister, but it makes no matter. Trystane will find himself married to a queen someday. 

_ Queen Asha, Queen Shireen, Princess Arianne. There will be a woman ruling every corner of Westeros soon _ .

.

Asha sleeps lightly, ears pricked for any sign of trouble. She keeps a hand close to the knife under her pillow, hoping she won’t have to use it.

A light noise wakes her in the night; she grips the handle of the knife and startles when something lands on her bed, pinning down her waist. She sits up, knife aimed at the throat of her midnight assailant.

It’s Arianne Martell, smiling and coy. “There’s no need for that, Queen Asha.”

“Isn’t there?” 

Arianne’s smile widens. “Of course not. I’m on your side. I want Stannis on the Iron Throne.”

“Really? Why?”

“Daenerys Targaryen is never coming to Westeros,” she says dismissively. “And if she does, she won’t know what she’s doing. She’s spent her whole life in Essos, and from what I hear, she can’t even control the cities she’s conquered there. How is she going to rule Westeros once she’s conquered it?”

“With her dragons, I imagine,” Asha says idly, distracted by the pleasant weight of Arianne in her lap. 

Arianne shakes her head. “Maybe. But she’s not here, she’s in Meereen.  _ Stannis _ is here, and he hates the Lannisters just as much as my family does. He is the rightful king and he’s lived here all his life. His daughter has lived here all her life; when he dies, she’ll rule in his stead, and if the gods are good, she’ll marry my brother.”

“Leaving you in charge of Dorne when your father passes,” Asha points out.

Arianne gives an innocent shrug. “So be it. It is my birthright, anyway.”

“It is.”

“I like you, Queen Asha,” Arianne says frankly. “You have a younger brother and two uncles, yet you have claimed the Iron Islands for yourself.”

“They are mine by right.”

“That they are,” Arianne agrees. “The world is a better place when women rule, don’t you think?”

Asha smiles. “I couldn’t agree more, my lady.”

Arianne leans over Asha. “Do you like women, Your Grace?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Asha asks, a heat igniting in her lower belly.

Arianne smiles. “I like you. You’re different.” She leans forward even more, her hair brushing Asha’s skin. “I wonder if you taste different.”

“Only one way to find out,” Asha murmurs.

Arianne smiles and presses her lips to Asha’s.


	38. CERSEI I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I promise it's important!

Cersei Lannister stands on her terrace, drinking one of her ever-present glasses of wine and staring out at the city. 

Disgusting place, really. For the capital of the seven kingdoms, it really is just a pile of shit. 

_ And now it’s all I have _ . 

“Your Grace?”

“‘Your Grace,’” she mocks into her wine glass. “What is it?”

Qyburn hesitates. “They’ve...blockaded the Gold Road. In a few days they’ll surround the city.”

“I know.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but that doesn’t mean she can’t hear him thinking. “Your Grace...I’ve been thinking…”

“So have I.” She turns, at last, to face him. “Do you know what they’ll do if they take the city, Qyburn?”

“There will be a good deal of slaughter, I imagine.”

“Slaughter, yes,” she hums. “But do you know what they’ll do to  _ me _ ? To my  _ son _ ?”

“Send him into exile, I imagine,” Qyburn says with the bluntness she’s always appreciated in him. “And you...they will keep a prisoner for the rest of your days, if they don’t kill you first.”

“Exactly. They mean to part me from my son. He is all I have left in this world.”

“I sense you have an alternative in mind.”

“Yes. And you’re going to help me. No one is going to part me from my son...and I do mean,  _ no one _ . I will see this city burned to the ground and Tommen in the crypt beside me before I let them part me from my precious boy.”

“What did you have in mind, Your Grace?”

Cersei smiles. “Fire and blood.”

  
  



	39. ARYA X

The yard rings with the sound of metal on metal, Arya’s smaller blade meeting Brienne’s bigger one over and over. The younger girl breathes heavily, eyes wide as she anticipates each new attack. 

Brienne is actually smiling, careful with her young charge. She disarms Arya, who looks down at her fallen sword with dismay.

“Very good, my lady.”

“It wasn’t very good,” Arya says sullenly. “You disarmed me.”

“But it took longer this time than it ever has before. You’re getting better. Stronger. Soon you’ll be able to disarm me.”

The  _ whish _ of an arrow distracts Arya; she looks over at where Rickon is learning archery, Theon guiding his hand. Catelyn, Sansa, and Jeyne Poole watch from the wooden walkways, smiling. Arya can’t tell if they’re laughing at her or not.

“Can we stop for today?”

“Of course.” Brienne tilts her head. “Is everything alright, my lady?”

“Yes.” She bites her lip. “I only...I wish I was better.” 

“You’re already very good, my lady,” Brienne says softly. “I’m not going easy on you because I know you’re strong enough to fight back. I’ve defeated grown men, of course you would have trouble disarming me.”

Arya feels better, but only a little. “What if people laugh at me?”

“Let them laugh,” Brienne says dismissively. “They won’t be laughing once you’re knocking grown men on their backs.”

Arya smiles a little at the image. “Do you think I could?”

“I know you could.” She leans forward. “You could certainly knock down your brother if you wanted.”

Arya’s smile widens. “I could, I bet. I can fire an arrow better than him.”

“I’d like to see that.”

Arya all but skips over to the stall, where she takes one of the practice bows and arrows and stands at an angle behind Rickon. He nocks and aims, but Arya lets her arrow fly before him. It lands right in the heart of the target, and Rickon and Theon both turn around to gape at her.

She curtsies, much as she had that day with Bran.

“This isn’t your lesson,” Rickon says irritably.

“I’m helping.” 

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Showing off is not helping.”

“Yes it is, I’m  _ showing _ you how it’s done.”

“Enough, Arya,” Catelyn calls from above. “Leave your brother alone.”

“Yes, Mother.” Arya dips into a low, mocking curtsy. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

“Stop calling me that,” Rickon huffs.

“Why not, Your Grace?”

“Mother!”

“Arya.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong!” she protests. “I’m addressing the king properly!”

“I want you to call me  _ Rickon _ !” he shouts, stamping his foot. Nearby, Shaggydog stands up and shakes himself off, yellow eyes alert. 

Catelyn descends the walkway, coming out into the yard. “Both of you, hush. Arya, stop teasing your brother, and Rickon, you  _ know _ your sister is only trying to irritate you, why do you give in to her?”

“She shouldn’t tease me,” he says, hurt.

Arya feels suddenly wretched. Only a moment ago she’d been afraid that Sansa was laughing at her, and now here she is, laughing at Rickon. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, contrite. “Do you want me to show you how to aim your arrow?”

“No,” he says stubbornly, but his face clears a little. “Do you want to go for a ride?”

“Yes.” She’s relieved at the peace offer, and always happy to go on a ride. 

The stablehands ready their horses, and once they’re ready, Arya, Rickon, Theon, and Brienne trot out of the yard, Shaggydog loping along behind them. 

There’s a cold bite to the air, putting a red flush in their cheeks. Arya and Rickon gallop ahead of Theon and Brienne, whooping as they try to overtake one another. Their horses kick up snow and dirt, and Arya knows she’ll be covered in the stuff by the end of this ride.

The two siblings rein in their horses when they get to the crest of a hill, breathing hard. Rickon won the race, though Arya let him; she knows it will smooth his ruffled feathers. And indeed, the young king is grinning at her, elated with his victory. 

Theon and Brienne ride up a few moments later, hanging back to allow the king and his sister some privacy. 

“I used to think being king meant you could do whatever you want,” Rickon admits. “But I feel like I have to do what other people want even more than I used to.”

“We’re at war. Things will get easier when it’s over,” she soothes.

He shakes his head. “I’ll still have to do what other people want. I’ll have to listen to Mother until I’m old enough to rule alone.”

“It won’t be so bad.”

“That’s easy for you to say; you’re not the king. All you have to do is get married.”

Arya glances at him. “Are you going to make me get married?”

He looks over at her, uncertainty scrawled all over his face. “I...I don’t know. I don’t... _ want _ to make you get married to someone you don’t like, but...isn’t it important for you and Sansa to marry lords with lands and armies?”

“I suppose so,” she mumbles. “But what if they’re cruel?”

“They won’t be cruel to the King in the North’s sisters.”

“Joffrey was cruel to Sansa.”

Rickon considers this. “If they’re cruel, I’ll raise an army and kill them.”

“That would start a war.”

“I don’t know what to do!” he shouts, frustrated. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” Arya bites her lip. “Just. If you’re going to choose a husband for me...let me at least have a say in it.”

“Alright.” His face clears. “I will.”

“Don’t let it be an old man.”

He scrunches up his face. “Ew.”

“Unless he’s so old he’s about to die. Then I can be a wealthy widow.”

“Ew,” Rickon says again, and the two siblings burst into laughter. 

“Race you back to Winterfell!” Arya says suddenly, urging her horse into a gallop.

“That’s not fair!” he shouts, hot on her heels. 

The two Starks laugh as they race back to Winterfell, Theon and Brienne struggling to keep up. They’re still laughing when they thunder into the yard, mud flying as they circle the horses into a trot. 

Catelyn and Sansa come out to meet them, faces grim.

“What is it?” Arya asks, handing the reins to the stableboy. 

Her mother and sister look at each other.

“Mother?” Rickon asks. “What is it?”

Catelyn wrings her hands. “There was a raven from Stannis. They made it to King’s Landing.”

“And?”

She hesitates for a long moment. “It isn’t there anymore.”

 


	40. ASHA II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UMM HOW ABOUT THAT EPISODE YO????????????

All Asha can think is,  _ This must be what Old Valyria looks like _ .

The greatest city in the seven kingdoms is nothing but a smoking heap of ashes. Nothing remains of its former glory. The Sept of Baelor, the Red Keep, all gone. Even the houses and shops, the Street of Steel and Gin Alley, all of them are gone. 

The city is oddly, terrifyingly quiet. It makes the hair on Asha’s arms stand up. 

“What happened here?” Tristifer Botley asks. 

“Dragons,” one of the men says darkly.

“Don’t be stupid,” Asha says, but she doesn’t know what else could have done this. Had Daenerys Targaryen finally come to claim her throne?

_ Except, there isn’t a throne left.  _

She rows ashore with a few of her men and goes to greet Stannis, whose army is camped outside the city gate. He greets her with a grim expression. 

“We sent a search party into the city, but I don’t think they’ll find anything.”

“What could’ve done this?” she asks, not expecting an answer.

“Wildfire. We’ve seen it once before. Aerys Targaryen had caches of the stuff hidden all over the city; Cersei ordered more of it made when she found out I was coming. It’s what destroyed us at the Battle of Blackwater. She knew our army was too big to destroy this time, though, so she destroyed the city.”

Asha gapes at him. “You’re sure?”

“What else could have done this?” he counters. “What else could have destroyed an entire city? The only person who stands to gain from this is Cersei.”

“But Cersei’s dead. Her son is dead.”

“She was always a spiteful woman. She knew defeat was certain. She knew we would take the crown from her bastard’s head and put it on mine. She knew she’d never get to see her children again. So she made sure she and her son died together, and she made sure there would be no iron throne to claim.” He shakes his head. “I’m only angry I didn’t realize the extent of her desperation sooner.”

Asha feels oddly cold. Cersei truly was a monster. 

.

The search parties don’t find any survivors. Not that Asha really expected them to, but any hope she’d had that someone,  _ anyone _ had survived, is gone. Over a million people. Gone. Three hundred years of history, buildings as old as the conquest itself, obliterated. 

Well, you had to hand it to Cersei; no one will ever forget her. 

The Lannister forces that weren’t in King’s Landing either flee to Casterly Rock or throw down their swords. Only a handful refuse to bend the knee, and those are sent to the Wall. 

Instead of fighting a battle, the men set to work clearing the destruction from the city. It will take weeks, maybe even months to make it habitable again. 

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” the red woman says to Asha. 

She doesn’t know how to feel about the red priestess, but it’s somewhere between allure and terror. 

“King’s Landing was built by Aegon the Conqueror. The Sept of Baelor was a shrine to the false gods. Now we can build a new city. One that honors the red god.”

“Perhaps,” Asha says politely. 

Melisandre smiles. “You worship the Drowned God.”

“‘Worship’ is a strong word.” 

“You believe in him, then.” 

“I do.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Because that’s what I was raised to believe.”

“You don’t seem like the type of woman to believe what you were raised to believe. You are the first ironborn queen in history.”

“It’s hard enough to command my men as it is, but turning my back on their god?” She shakes her head. “They’d never forgive me.”

“You don’t need their forgiveness; you need their loyalty.”

“It’s a thin line between the two.”

The red woman smiles mysteriously at her. “That it is, Queen Asha. That it is.” She wanders away, leaving Asha wondering where on  _ earth _ Stannis found this woman.

.

The lords and ladies of Westeros and even a few across the Narrow Sea come to King’s Landing to witness the coronation. King Rickon rides to White Harbor and takes a ship to King’s Landing, along with his mother, to recognize Stannis as King of Westeros and for Stannis, in turn, to recognize Rickon as King in the North. His sisters will be remaining in Winterfell, watching over the North until their brother’s return. 

The visitors Asha is most anticipating, however, are the Martells.

Arianne comes in her father’s place, Prince Doran too weak with gout to make the journey. She brings her brother Trystane, who looks even more sullen than the last time Asha had seen him. Asha pulls aside the princess as soon as she’s able.

“What have you done with Myrcella?” she asks in a low voice.

“My cousin Tyene took her to a sept in Oldtown,” Arianne says in an equally low voice. “She will be safe there. Hidden.”

“Does Trystane know where she is?”

“No.”

“Good; let’s keep it that way.” Trystane’s attachment to Myrcella is worrisome; there are those who want Myrcella to be exiled, and there’s no telling whether Trystane would be desperate enough to follow her or not. 

“He’s young,” Arianne says dismissively. “He’ll soon forget her.”

“Not soon enough. Stannis is going to announce the betrothal at his coronation feast.”

“Trystane will put on a brave face for the coronation. It will be some years yet before he and Shireen marry; that will give him time to forget Myrcella and accept his new bride. He knows Myrcella is a bastard, and he knows he’ll be husband of the queen when the time comes. Give him time to adjust.”

“I swore I’d secure the allegiance of Dorne; if your brother acts out because he doesn’t like his new bride--”

“Trystane is upset, but he’s not stupid. He knows his duty to his family, and to Dorne.” Arianne rests her hands on Asha’s shoulders. “You’re tense, my queen. You need someone to help you relax.”

Asha smiles despite herself. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Tonight? Why not now?”

Asha glances around them. “It’s broad daylight.”

“So? You are a queen; you may do as you like. Besides, now no one can doubt where Dorne’s allegiance lies.”

Asha laughs in amazement. “You have a point, my lady.”

“I have more than just that,” Arianne says coyly. “I’ll show you.”

Asha lets the princess lead her to her tent, the eyes of their men upon them.

“Let them look,” Arianne murmurs. “Let them see that the Queen of the Ironborn fears no one.”

So Asha does.

.

By the time the party from the North arrives, a rough structure has been erected on Aegon’s Hill where the Red Keep once stood. Most of the wreckage has been cleared in some form or another. Already carpenters are building timber frames, stonemasons laying the foundations of shops and great houses. Soon it will be a city again, a real city. 

Asha waits with Stannis’s party as the King in the North and his party ride up Aegon’s Hill. Little Rickon looks noble, a silver crown resting atop his red curls, a cloak of black velvet trimmed with grey fur draped over his shoulders and clasped by a silver wolf pin. Theon rides close behind him, smiling when he sees his sister. Though he stands at a distance when Rickon and Lady Catelyn greet Stannis, he embraces his sister as the parties move inside.

“Gods, this place looks terrible,” he mutters, looking out at the city. 

“Cersei wanted to make sure that if she didn’t get to enjoy it, no one would.” Asha folds her arms over her chest, also looking out. “She got her dying wish.”

“Cunt.” Theon shakes his head. “After all the things she’s done…”

Asha glances at him. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

He sets his jaw. “She hurt a friend of mine.”

“She hurt a lot of people.”

He shakes his head. “She did...something personal. Something she didn’t have to do, just to hurt an innocent person. I’d always hoped...I don’t know.”

“Hoped what?” she asks, curious. 

“It’s stupid.”

“So is offering to be in the kingsguard.”

He rolls his eyes. 

“Tell me, Theon.”

“I...had hoped to bring her head to my...friend.”

Asha grins. “It’s a girl.”

“It’s not like that,” he says, but his ears are still pink.

“Which one is it? The Stark girl? Sansa?”

“Gods, she’s like a sister to me.”

“So it’s the other one, then? Her little friend, Jeyne?” Asha asks with a wide smile. “She’s pretty.”

“It isn’t like that,” he says again, but the pinkness spreads into his cheeks. 

“You wanted to give her Cersei’s head--what else is it like?”

“She’s a friend is all.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“She’s a child,” he says forcefully. “And she’s been...hurt by men before.”

Asha takes him at his meaning. “But you’re sweet on her.”

“She needs some kindness in her life, that’s all.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She throws her arm around his shoulders. “I’m only teasing, little brother. But if you ever need advice for wooing young ladies, I’ve got plenty.”

“That’ll be the day,” he mutters, letting her lead him inside.

.

Under a flaming red awning, Melisandre names Stannis King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. As there were more than seven kingdoms in Westeros to begin with, it is no lie to say that he now rules the seven remaining kingdoms. His crown, a heart-shaped ruby set amongst golden antlers, is set upon his head.

“Long live King Stannis!”

“Long live King Stannis!”

The cheers ring through the dead city, breathing new life into it. Asha shares a look with Theon and smiles.

.

All day and all night, the celebrants toast King Stannis. He looks oddly pained, as if any cheerfulness on his behalf is a burden. He’s the only one; everyone else drinks and laughs, raising their goblets for more wine. There’s dancing once night falls, and though it begins dignified enough, it does not stay that way for long. The women are swung high in the air while the men shout along to “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”, and before long, a crowd gathers to watch the ironborn dance the finger dance. 

When there’s a break in the music, Stannis rises. The hall falls silent, or as close as it is like to, and all eyes turn to the dais.

“Today we celebrate a great victory. That victory would not have been possible for our friends in the North and in the Iron Islands.” He raises his goblet, everyone in the room hurrying to do the same. Servers rush forward with pitchers of wine, refilling cups to toast the kings, queens, and princesses.

“Hail Rickon, King in the North.”

“Hail Rickon, King in the North!” the hall echoes, drinking to his health.

“Hail Asha, Queen of the Iron Islands.”

“Hail Asha, Queen of the Iron Islands!”

Cheers erupt as the attendees down their cups of wine, Asha’s perhaps loudest of all. The ruler of the Seven Kingdoms acknowledged her as Queen of the Iron Islands. Not Euron, not Victarion, not even little Theon. Her. Asha. 

She gets up, throwing an arm around Theon’s shoulders and smacking a wet kiss on his cheek. At their table, the ironborn began chanting.

_ “Asha! Queen Asha!” _

Nothing has ever felt so sweet.

  
  



	41. ROS I

The perfumed air of the pleasure house rings with the cries of Ahna.

“No, no, no,” Ros sighs, shaking her head. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?”

The two girls auditioning for a place in the pleasure house look at her, eyes wide.

“ _ Ease _ into it,” she tells them. “Slowly! Try again.” She watches, arms folded across her chest, as the two women try it again, moving slower and savoring the experience. Or appearing to, anyway. They’re good performers, they just need some finessing. 

“Right,” she says when Ahna has either truly come or given an extremely believable performance. “Go wash off and see Magda, she’ll get you set up with rooms.”

The girls smile (Ahna flushed with either pleasure or relief, or perhaps both) and saunter out of the room. 

Ros looks around the room, nodding in satisfaction. She’s done well here in Pentos, and imagines she’ll do better yet in a few years when her house’s reputation has spread.

It hadn’t been easy at first, a girl from the North coming off a ship in the Free Cities. She hadn’t spoken a lick of Valyrian, and was fortunate that so many in Pentos spoke the Common Tongue. She’d been fortunate, too, that she was so pretty, and so skilled in the art of pleasure. A wealthy merchant had taken her in for a time, and as with many wealthy men in Pentos, was generous with his gifts. He’d presented her with dresses of finer material than she’d ever worn, golden combs and sultry perfumes, exotic food she’d never tasted, gold chains and jade bracelets and all sorts of jewelry. The best gift of all, however, had been agreeing to finance her pleasure house.

He’d paid for everything, an investment that has already paid itself off twice over. Whores are lucrative, especially in one of the wealthiest cities in Essos. Men from all over the world want a taste of Pentoshi pleasure and will pay almost any price for it. 

Her merchant is a silent partner now, one who takes a cut of the profits every month; even so, Ros has more money now than she’d even imagined. Give it a few more years and she may well be able to retire off the fruits of her labors. She’d want to buy the merchant’s share first, of course, and continue receiving profits to fund her retirement. She could travel the world, could taste the finest foods and wines without having to lick a cock first. 

_ Someday _ , she promises herself. 

“Madam?”

Ros turns and sees Larra, one of her quieter girls. Men like Larra because she seems shy and modest, but in the bedroom, she moans...well, like a whore. She looks shy now.

“What is it, Larra?”

“There’s a man...asking for a young girl.”

Ros shrugs. “So find him one.”

Larra wrings her hands. “It...he asked if we had anyone...younger.”

It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in. Ros’s youngest girl is sixteen, and even she’s more of an observer than an active participant. 

“Did you tell him we don’t have anyone that young?”

“I did, but he seemed...angry. He had lots of coin, and he said...he said he’d speak ill of the house if he couldn’t find what he was looking for.”

Ros can afford to turn away a customer, but she can’t afford to ruin her house’s reputation.

_ But do I really want the reputation of a madam who whores out little girls? _ She thinks, not for the first time, of Jeyne Poole. 

“I’ll deal with it,” she says. “Take me to him.”

Larra’s face clears, and she leads Ros to one of the more secluded lounges. Sitting there is a man Ros thought dead.

Ser Meryn Trant.

She stops short, surprised to see a member of the Kingsguard alive and well in Pentos. He ought to be dead. Not just dead, but a pile of ashes alongside his king. 

Ser Meryn stands up, scowling at Ros. “I’m told you don’t have any girls younger than sixteen.”

It takes her a moment to realize that he doesn’t recognize her. But why should he? She never bedded him. She’s much too old for his taste.

“That is true,” she says, maintaining her composure.

“Why not?”

“I don’t believe in whoring out children,” she says smoothly.

“You’re the only whorehouse that doesn’t.”

“Interesting, and yet you’ve chosen to come here instead of one of these other whorehouses.” She smiles. “How many other pleasure houses have turned you away, Ser Meryn?”

The shock is clear on his face. He really doesn’t recognize her, and didn’t think anyone would recognize him. 

“I don’t have anything for you here. Get out.”

He leaves without a word, his face pale. 

“You know him?” Larra asks in awe.

“Unfortunately.” Ros considers him, curious. He wasn’t wearing his kingsguard armor. He wasn’t wearing any armor at all. Had he left the order? Been dismissed by the Lannisters? But no, he was loyal to a fault to them, because they let him get away with whatever he wanted. He would never do anything to jeopardize that arrangement. Had they perhaps sent him here in disguise before their untimely demise? But for what purpose? “Larra. Do you remember what that man looks like?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Could you get your boy to follow him?”

Larra looks surprised. “I...suppose so.”

“There’ll be gold in it for you both,” Ros promises. “I only...I have a bad feeling.”

“I’ll go find him.”

“Please do.” 

.

Littlefinger had once mentioned to Ros that the Master of Whisperers used children to bring him information. His “little birds”, he called them. People think children are innocent and incapable of spying, which is how they’re able to get away with so much. Valuable information has been passed to the small council through children. 

And now, a child is going to help Ros find out what a valued member of the kingsguard is doing alive and in disguise in Pentos when his king is dead.

Larra and her boy come to her when the sky is ruby-red, the sun making a fantastic show of setting. Larra is pale-skinned and honey-haired and her boy has brown skin and dark hair, but they have the same pair of startling blue eyes. 

“You must be Devan,” she says, smiling at the child.

“Yes, madam,” he says in a voice even softer than his mother’s. 

“Did you follow a man today?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you see?”

He looks up at his mother, who nods encouragingly.

“He went to a manse with a high wall and a locked gate. I peeked in through the gutter grate. There were crates everywhere. I only heard one person, and she spoke in the Common Tongue.”

“Could you take me to this manse?”

He nods. “Yes, madam.”

“Good boy.” 

.

It’s a far walk, but Ros doesn’t mind. She follows Devan along the winding streets, picking her way through mud and shit. 

He stops in front of a manse with high stone walls. Orange trees line one side of the walls, and Ros has an idea. 

It’s been many years since she climbed a tree, but she does so now, feeling more ungainly than ever as she moves from one branch to the other. Devan watches from below, blue eyes wide. 

The foliage from the tree hides her from the occupants of the manse, who can be heard from one of the rooms. They all speak in the Common Tongue, two of them with highborn accents. Ros only catches bits and pieces, but what she hears is enough.

She shimmies down the tree and finds Devan waiting at the bottom. 

“Let’s go, little man.”

His eyes widen, and before he can cry out, two strong hands slam Ros against the wall. It knocks the wind from her, and she hangs there, limp and gasping as Meryn Trant seethes at her.

“I thought you looked familiar. You’re one of Littlefinger’s stupid whores, aren’t you?”

She cannot speak, can only gulp for air that won’t come.

“I should have recognized you from the first. No matter; you’ll be in the gutter when I’m finished with you. In more than one piece.”

Though Ros cannot breathe, she can still move. While Trant is talking to her, detailing all the things he’s going to do to her, her hand slowly pulls his knife from its sheath...and sinks it into his belly. 

Trant stumbles back, but Ros moves forward, stabbing him a second time. Blood stains the front of his shirt, spreading with each passing moment.

“Die,” she croaks, and slashes his throat.

The air comes rushing back into her lungs just as he crumples to the ground. She takes deep, gasping lungfuls of air. 

Devan is hiding in the shadows, but he creeps out when he sees Ros.

“It’s alright,” she tells him, but her own nerves are still frayed. “Let’s get out of here before anyone sees.”

He nods silently and leads her back the way they came, all back alleys and side roads. It’s just as well; the last thing she needs is anyone seeing her on the main roads. 

Larra is pacing up and down in Ros’s room when they return; she lets out a cry at seeing the other woman. Looking down, she realizes that she has blood on her hand and splattered on her dress. How many people saw her like that? 

“We’re alright,” she says, moving to the basin and washing the blood from her hand. 

“What’s that, then?”

“An unavoidable accident.” She scrubs with soap, watching the water turn red. 

“Ros...what’s going on?”

She looks up at Larra, the other woman’s blue eyes wide with worry. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. Cersei and Tommen Lannister are alive.”


	42. ASHA III

Asha has her head firmly between Arianne’s legs when the knock comes on the door. 

“Not now,” Arianne calls, sighing. 

“Pardon, my lady, but I must speak to Queen Asha. It is urgent.”

Asha sighs, sitting up and wiping her mouth. “What is it?”

“Ironborn ships coming from the east, Your Grace.”

That makes Asha bolt out of bed, throwing open the door. “What do you mean?”

“Forty ships were seen on the horizon,” the servant boy says, ears pink. “They fly the kraken and a white flag.”

Victarion. It must be; she destroyed Euron’s fleet in the Shields, and  _ Iron Victory _ hadn’t been among them. Even if Euron managed to build forty ships, they’d be coming from the south, not the east. 

“Let me dress.” She closes the door, going to her basin to wash herself with a cloth. 

“Are we being attacked?” Arianne yawns.

“Who knows. They fly the white flag, but that means nothing beside the kraken sigil.” She reaches for her clothes. “I have to go down there and see.”

“And leave me like this?”

Asha grins, leaning over to kiss Arianne. “I’ll take care of you later, love. Once I deal with my uncle.”

.

To her surprise, Theon meets her at the docks.

“Not protecting the king?”

“He has a direwolf; he’ll manage without me.” Theon shakes his head. “I didn’t want to let you deal with this alone.”

She’s touched by his concern. “I can handle our uncle, baby brother.”

“Aye, but can he handle the two of us?”

She smiles. “Let’s hope not.”

The boat that rows towards the docks, however, does not have Victarion on it. Instead, it is a group of ironborn men, all of them looking solemn, but none of them looking particularly bloodthirsty.

Before Asha can ask them what brings them to King’s Landing, they bend the knee to her. 

“Hail Queen Asha!” they chant.

She shares a confused look with Theon.

“Rise.”

They do.

“What is this?” she asks. “Where’s my uncle?”

“We left him near the Summer Isles.”

“He’s changed, my la--Your Grace.”

“Changed?”

The men glance at each other.

“He...he’s taken up with a red priest. He believes that he’s...chosen.”

“Chosen?” she asks, stunned.

They share another uneasy glance. 

“He doesn’t believe in the Drowned God anymore, Queen Asha. He worships this red god. He’s mad.”

“We should never have listened to Euron,” one of them adds. “ _ You _ are our queen. The Seven Kingdoms know it.  _ We _ know it.”

Asha considers them. “I only see forty ships, but my uncle must have taken nearly a hundred to Essos.”

“Lost in a storm.”

“Aye, it was the same storm where we found that bloody priest.”

She looks at Theon, unsure of what to make of all this. It seems too good to be true. Could this not be some ruse? Some trap to bring her back to Euron?

Theon seems to have similar thoughts. “How do we know you won’t turn your cloaks and bend the knee to Euron when the tides change?”

“Euron killed his brother and will kill the both of you if he gets the chance. He sent Victarion on a fool’s errand and imprisoned Aeron. He cut out the tongues of every man in his crew. We don’t matter to him.” 

Theon glances at Asha and raises his eyebrows as if to say,  _ Why not? _

She can think of several reasons why not. They could still be working for her uncles. They could be trying to lure her away from the protection of Stannis and kill her. They could be in earnest now but turn their cloaks later. 

Or. 

Or, they could be loyal. They could pledge themselves to her rule and fight Euron and Victarion and whoever else opposes her. They could give her a real Iron Fleet, not one borrowed from White Harbor and Dorne. She could be a queen in more than just name. 

“I accept your allegiance,” she says at last. “But if any of you betray me, I’ll kill you.”

“We would expect nothing less,” one of the men says.

Asha smiles.

.

Thus armed with a full fleet and the support of her uncle’s men, Asha makes ready to set sail for home. The sooner she reclaims the islands, the better; Euron will already be planning his revenge, and Victarion will be equally eager to overthrow her. 

Arianne gives her a sweet send-off, the two women tangled in each other all night. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Arianne says when they stop for a breather. “No one else in this horrible place is like you.”

“No one on the Iron Islands is like you,” Asha tells her honestly. “Miserable, grey little men.”

“But they’re loyal to you.”

“They are,” she admits. “I only hope it’s a lasting loyalty.”

Arianne puts her arms around her. “If your uncles try anything, Dorne will back you.”

Asha kisses her, long and lingering. “It’s a shame women can’t marry each other; if I were the marrying kind, I’d take you for my rock wife.”

“You can take me in  _ other _ ways,” Arianne murmurs.

So Asha does.

.

Stannis and Theon see her off in the morning. She hardly slept the night before, kept awake by Arianne’s generous send-off, but it makes no matter; she can sleep on the ship. 

“We are forever grateful for your service, Queen Asha,” Stannis says, showing something almost like emotion. 

“It was my honor, King Stannis,” she says politely. 

“May the Lord of Light protect you on your journey,” Queen Selyse offers.

“Thank you, Queen Selyse.”

Shireen smiles up at her from her father’s side. “I hope you have many adventures, Queen Asha.”

She smiles down at the younger girl. “I hope so too, my lady. Perhaps when you’re older we can take some together.”

Shireen’s face splits into a grin.

The royal family steps back to allow Theon a moment with his sister. The two siblings embrace for a long moment.

“Thank you for everything,” Theon murmurs.

“It’s I who should be thanking you, little brother.”

He shakes his head. “We helped each other. We always will.”

“We always will,” she echoes in agreement. “Take care, little brother.”

“You too.”

She steps back, grinning. “And find a nice head to give that sweetheart of yours.”

“Fuck you.”

Her grin widens. She saunters off to the boat that will take her out into the bay. She doesn’t look back until she’s on the boat, rowing away from King’s Landing. Theon raises his hand in farewell, and she raises hers in return.

She hopes this isn’t the last time she’ll see him.


	43. THEON XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know--it's been a while since we had a Theon chapter! I've missed writing this guy.

The northern party stays in King’s Landing for a time after Asha and her ironborn leave. They receive regular reports from Maester Luwin, who assures them that all is well in hand. Sansa is running the North as if she was born to it, and Jeyne and Arya are helping her to the best of their abilities. They’re still looking for a replacement steward, but in the meantime, Jeyne is serving quite well.

Now that Asha is gone, Theon longs to return home. He’d never really liked King’s Landing before (which was in no small part due to his reason for being there in the first place), and he likes it even less now that it is essentially a ghost city. Though new houses and shops are springing up everywhere, there’s still an unsettling feeling of death surrounding the place. 

He still can’t believe that Cersei blew up the entire place. He’d known she would be reluctant to surrender, but  _ this _ ...this is something else.

“She didn’t want to give us the satisfaction of making her atone for her sins. It was a clever move. And ruthless,” Lady Catelyn had said. 

There had been, to Theon’s knowledge, scouting parties who went underground to make sure there wasn’t any wildfire left. They hadn’t found any, and Theon doubts they will; trust Cersei to ensure that the last of the wildfire died with her. 

The Kingslayer hasn’t been taking it well, or so he’s heard. Stannis had kept Lannister with him always, just as Robb had, to ensure that no one would be tempted to give up Tywin Lannister’s favorite child. He’s being held in the old Dragonpit now, awaiting a trial. They haven’t gotten around to it what with everything happening, and truth be told, Theon suspects Stannis is intentionally delaying the trial to make Lannister antsy. 

Some part of Theon almost feels sorry for the man. He’s been a prisoner for years now, unable to fight for his family, and now his sister (and lover) has destroyed herself, his home, and their son. This isn’t even to mention the death of his father and oldest son, or the disappearance of his brother. Jaime Lannister has no one left in the world.

.

It’s been nearly a month since Stannis’s coronation when he finally agrees to put Lannister on trial. He, Queen Selyse, and Rickon sit on the dais in the throne room that is still under construction, the smell of sawdust filling the air. Everyone in King’s Landing flocks to the castle; the nobles gather in the hall, and the smallfolk stand as close to the keep as the guards will let them, craning their necks and straining their ears for any news.

Theon stands close behind Rickon, and he has a perfect view of Lannister’s face as they march him in. It’s been so long since Theon saw him that at first, he wonders why they’ve brought in a sick beggar; it takes a long moment for him to realize that the man before him now is the same golden lion who came to Winterfell so long ago. 

He looks terrible. His smooth, golden hair looks like muddy straw, brown with mud and filth. He’s filthy all over, and gaunt, too; his eyes are hollow, and he looks as if he could be snapped in half if one tried hard enough. His face is obscured by a patchy brown beard, his eyes cast down to the floor.

Theon knows why Stannis wanted him this way; to show all the world that Jaime Lannister is nothing more than a man, and a sorry one, at that. 

And yet, Theon cannot help but feel that it is too much. Let Lannister at least have had the dignity of a bath and a change of clothes, not wearing the same rags he’s been in since he was captured. 

Some of the nobles are sneering, and Theon frowns at that. Have they no pity? This man has lost everything. True, he was their enemy. He killed their king, and nearly killed Lord Stark. He was Robb’s enemy. 

And yet…

“Jaime Lannister,” Stannis says, and the hall falls silent. “Do you know why you have been brought before us this day?”

Lannister says nothing, staring down instead at his feet.

“Jaime Lannister,” Stannis says again, louder. “Do you know why you have been brought before us this day?”

Lannister mutters something.

“What?”

He lifts his head, looking at Stannis. “Kill me, and be done with it.”

Stannis raises his eyebrows. “You admit to your crimes?”

“Yes.” His eyes lower again.

“Do you know which crimes you are accused of?”

“Doesn’t matter. I did them. Kill me and be done with it.”

“Do you jape with me, ser?” 

“What do I  _ possibly _ have to jape about?” Lannister asks with sudden fury. “My family is dead, my city destroyed. Everyone I have ever loved is gone. Cut off my head and put it on a pike, for all I care. Only burn my body after, so my ashes can mingle with my sister’s.”

Whispers spread through the hall like wildfire at this near-admission. Stannis glances at Lady Catelyn. 

Impulsively, Theon leans in between Rickon and Catelyn. “Do his crimes truly warrant execution, Your Grace?”

Catelyn glances at him. “You think execution too harsh?”

“I do. Look at him. He’s already dead in spirit.”

Catelyn and Rickon eye the lion of Lannister.

“What would you suggest?”

“He’s a renowned fighter. If Jon is to be believed, enemies are marching on the Wall. Let him take the black.”

“He threw my son out a  _ window _ .”

“Murderers are sent to the Wall all the time,” Theon reminds her. “He did not conspire to kill King Robert, nor Lord Stark. His only crime was serving his king and his house.”

“He did not serve his king when he put a sword through his back.”

“No; he was serving the realm. The Mad King killed your betrothed, Lady Catelyn; your father-in-law. He ordered the execution of your lord husband. How many others would he have had killed had Lannister not killed him first?”

Catelyn purses her lips. 

Rickon looks troubled, and Theon knows that he will be the easiest to sway. “I accompanied Lord Stark to a number of executions, Your Grace; criminals and deserters of the Night’s Watch. He always cut off their heads himself. He told us that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Are you prepared to swing the sword?”

Rickon looks at Stannis. “If it please Your Grace, I think we should send him to the Wall.”

Fresh murmurs break out at this. Stannis considers Rickon’s suggestion with interest. 

“The Wall can always use fighting men,” Rickon adds. “Let Lannister take the black.”

The red woman leans in and murmurs something in Stannis’s ear. When she steps back, he nods. “Very well. Jaime of the House Lannister, I sentence you to a lifetime serving the Night’s Watch.”

More murmurs arise at this. Theon finds himself oddly relieved that Lannister’s life is spared.

Lannister looks less relieved; if anything, a scowl takes over his face as the soldiers lead him out of the hall. 

Once again, Theon can’t help but feel sorry for the man.

.

At long last, the northerners decide to return home. They take the kingsroad north and then veer west to Riverrun, where Edmure feasts them to celebrate their victory.

_ Not much of a victory _ , Theon thinks, but he smiles and raises his cup to toast his king when the occasion calls for it. 

“Where is Lady Walda?” Catelyn asks her brother. “I thought she came to Riverrun some time ago.”

“She did,” Edmure confirms. “She gave birth only yesterday. A healthy son named Rickon.”

Rickon starts at this. “She named him  _ Rickon _ ?”

Edmure nods. “She did. As a mark of gratitude for the king who spared his life.”

Rickon looks quite taken aback. Theon cannot help but laugh at the boy’s face.

“Get ready, Your Grace; every northern son will be named Rickon in the years to come.”

“That was kind of her,” Rickon decides at last. “I would like to see her, and the baby.”

“I would be happy to take you to her tomorrow,” Edmure offers. “For now, I believe she is resting.”

“Nothing is as exhausting as birthing your first child,” Catelyn says sympathetically. “I remember when I had Robb--behind these very walls, as a matter of fact.” 

_ And he died behind these walls, too, _ Theon cannot help but remember. A chill passes through him. Robb, his brother and his best friend. His lord and king, the first person to ever truly understand him. 

Suddenly, it all becomes too much. The feasting, the music, the laughter and chatter. He feels overwarm. Stifled. 

He turns to Brienne. “I’m feeling overwarm. Will you stay with the king while I walk outside for a time?”

“Of course.”

“Can you let out Shaggydog?” Rickon asks. “They chained him up outside so he wouldn’t scare the dogs. He doesn’t like being chained up.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Theon leaves the hall, his ears ringing with the clangor of the feast. It’s a relief to walk out of the castle, the noise muffled by the castle walls. The night air is cool and refreshing. It tastes of water, and as he walks farther from the castle, the sounds of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone become louder and clearer. He makes his way to where Shaggydog has been chained up, the men and animals giving the direwolf a wide berth. He stands up when he sees Theon, tail wagging. He’s so excited when Theon reaches for his collar that he can barely hold still, and it takes a long moment for Theon to extricate the beast.

Once free, Shaggydog bounds towards the woods. Theon follows at a slower pace, knowing the direwolf only needs to get it out of his system. He’ll come back; he always does.

Some part of Theon feels oddly bereft. The war is won, the Lannisters stripped of power, the rightful king rules in the south, Asha rules the Iron Islands, and Ned Stark’s trueborn son rules the North. Theon is the first member of the northern kingsguard, and those he cares about are safe and happy.

So why does he feel this sudden emptiness? All that time spent fighting, raising troops and forging alliances, risking his neck for the future...and now that the future is here, what will he do? What was it all for?

Before he can think too hard about it, a howl shatters the calm night air. It’s a wolf’s howl, and it could only be Shaggydog, but it sets Theon’s teeth on edge. Something feels off.

Another howl joins the first. He grips his sword, walking faster into the woods. 

This turns out to be a mistake.

He hears a growl to his left, and before he knows it, a ring of yellow eyes surround him, white fangs glinting in the moonlight. These are not direwolves. These are normal wolves, and they mean to have him for dinner.

“Shaggydog,” he calls softly, hoping the direwolf hears him. “Here, Shaggy.”

A rumble like thunder fills the air, and before him, a massive grey creature takes shape, looking at him with dark golden eyes and teeth the size of his fingers. 

“Shaggy,” he says, louder.  _ Where is that blasted wolf when you need him? _

A nearby howl makes the dark gold eyes swing to the right, and  a moment later, Shaggydog bounds through the woods, bowling over the grey wolf. The other wolves bark, but in a moment, Shaggydog and the other wolf begin sniffing and licking each other. The tension seems to leave the atmosphere.

It takes Theon a long moment to realize that the grey wolf is the same size as Shaggydog...and that he’s seen her before.

“Nymeria?” he asks aloud.

Arya’s direwolf pads forward, sniffing his hand. She licks him, her tongue rough against his skin. He scratches her behind the ears, wondering. “What are you doing here, hmm?” He looks around at her pack. They’re sitting back on their haunches, watching the proceedings with interest. 

After a few more moments of the littermates reuniting, Nymeria rises up and starts to move away. Her pack gets up too, ready to follow her wherever she bids. She looks back at Shaggydog. His tail wags, but he looks uncertainly at Theon.

“Go on,” Theon says. He knows all too well what it’s like to be reunited with your sister. 

And besides, Shaggydog will come back.

He always does.


	44. ARYA XI

She’s a wolf again.

It’s been a long time since she’s had one of these dreams. The wolf dreams. The feeling of freedom returns, her feet bounding across the forest floor. Behind her is her pack, and at her side…

At her side is her brother. The great black wolf with green eyes. He’s still like a puppy, wild and undisciplined. It’s alright; they’re together again.

She’s alive with the cold night air, the crunch of snow beneath her feet, the smell of humans roasting their prey over their fires. Behind her is her pack, running and racing amongst the trees. They will follow her anywhere. 

Swept up in a sudden elation, she throws back her head and howls. The others howl too, creating a beautiful song. Above, the moon shines down on them, pleased. 

.

Arya wakes with a start, staring up at her ceiling. That dream had felt so  _ real _ . But it isn’t real. She isn’t a wolf, let alone  _ her _ wolf. 

Nymeria.

She hasn’t seen the direwolf since that horrible day so long ago, but she thinks about her all the time. Nymeria had been her best friend. She’d only wanted to protect Arya from Joffrey. They would have killed Nymeria had Arya and Jory not scared her off.

_ And instead they killed Lady _ .

Even after all this time, the thought makes Arya’s heart ache. The only thing that had hurt worse than letting go of Nymeria was watching Lady die in her stead. Sansa hadn’t deserved that.  _ Lady _ hadn’t deserved that. 

Overcome by a sudden melancholy, Arya throws back her furs and gets out of bed, her bare feet padding across the flagstones. She makes her way to Sansa’s room, where she doesn’t even knock, just lets herself in.

Sansa and Jeyne are still asleep, but they stir awake when Arya climbs in beside Sansa. The older girl sleepily moves aside, allowing Arya room to burrow into the bed.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa murmurs, eyes still closed.

She strokes Sansa’s hair. Even now, even after a night of sleep, it looks like smooth, burnished copper. “I had a dream about Nymeria.”

“A bad dream?”

“No. Just a dream. She was running in the woods with other wolves, and Shaggydog.”

“Mm.”

Arya hesitates. “I suddenly felt so sad, because I was...I was thinking about Lady.”

Sansa’s eyes crack open. “Really?”

Arya nods. “I still feel terrible about it.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sansa says in surprise. “It was Joffrey’s. He was trying to hurt you. Nymeria was protecting you.” She looks sad. “That was more than I did.”

“He was your intended,” Arya says, equally surprised. “What would you have done, anyway? Picked up a practice sword and take a swing at him?”

Sansa bites back a smile. “Can you imagine?”

The two sisters break into giggles, which they try to muffle, but Jeyne sits up and rests her head on Sansa’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“We’re imagining Sansa hitting Joffrey with a practice sword.”

“Wish you’d hit him with a real sword,” Jeyne says, yawning. 

“He got his in the end.”

“Do you think Tyrion really killed him?” Arya asks her sister.

Sansa shakes her head. “He hated Joffrey, and Joffrey hated him, but Tyrion is too...honorable for that. He’d never poison his own nephew.”

“Too bad,” Jeyne mutters.

“Who  _ did _ kill him, I wonder?” Arya muses. 

“Daenerys Targaryen,” Sansa suggests.

“How?” Jeyne asks, but Arya is excited by the prospect.

“Perhaps she fired a Faceless Man from Braavos to kill him, and that’s why no one could find the real killer.”

“That may be so, but where is she?” Jeyne points out. “King’s Landing is gone, the Lannisters are dead; now is the perfect time to come back and claim her crown.”

“She’s biding her time,” Sansa says. 

“She has dragons and Unsullied, what’s she waiting for?”

“A bigger army.”

The three girls lie there, thinking about the mysterious queen across the Narrow Sea. 

“I’d like to see a live dragon,” Arya decides at last.

“Not if it’s your enemy.”

“I saw their skulls in King’s Landing,” she continues. “It felt like they were watching me.”

Jeyne shivers. “What a horrible thought.”

“They’re all gone now,” Arya says sadly. 

They lie there for a long moment, thinking about the dragons and what it means to have live ones in the world again.

.

A rider comes later that day, announcing that the King in the North is stopping the night in Cerwyn and will return home the following day. They’ve been preparing for his return for a while now, but the imminence of his arrival throws them all into a flurry of activity. Sansa wants everything to be perfect for their mother and brother’s arrival, and she has Jeyne and all the servants thrown into a tizzy because of it.

Arya wisely avoids the keep, choosing instead to visit the Winter Town with Grey Wind. The townsfolk are all deferential to their princess, smiling and offering courtesies. Vendors offer samples of their wares, and the butchers throw pieces of meat in the air for Grey Wind, who snaps them up, much to the delight of the children watching. Arya passes the whole day there and doesn’t dare return to Winterfell until night falls.

She means to slip up to her room and avoid Sansa at dinner, knowing that her sister will only be irritable, but to her horror, Sansa is in her room, rifling through her clothes.

“What are you doing in here?” Arya demands.

“Looking for something for you to wear tomorrow.”

“I can choose my own clothes.”

“You’d wear men’s clothes all the time if we let you. Mother and Rickon are returning tomorrow, you must look  _ presentable _ .”

“Mother and Rickon are my  _ family _ , they don’t care what I look like.”

“Rickon is your  _ king _ , you have to show him respect.”

“He won’t care!” She storms over to her sister, yanking her clothes out of her hands. “I’ll wear something nice if it will shut you up, but stop going through my things!”

“You don’t have to be such a brat!”

“I’m not being a brat, you’re being nosy!”

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell while Mother and Rickon are away--”

“You’re my  _ sister _ , and I don’t take orders from you!” Arya snarls.

Sansa throws down the clothes in frustration and storms out of the room. Arya grabs them up, throwing them back into place. The warm peace of this morning is gone, the sisterly affection forgotten. Why did Sansa have to go and ruin everything?

She’s still angry about it when Jeyne comes in her room.

“What do you want?” Arya snaps, sure that Jeyne’s come to scold her.

To her surprise, Jeyne does the opposite. “I’m sorry about Sansa. She doesn’t mean it. She’s...agitated about Rickon coming back.”

“I can see that,” Arya snorts.

“No, I mean she’s...worried.”

“Why?”

Jeyne sits on the edge of her bed. “Now that the war is over, it’s time for peace. The best way to make peace is through marriage. Sansa’s afraid that while your mother and brother were in King’s Landing, they negotiated a marriage for her.”

Arya hadn’t even thought about that. “Do you think they did?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jeyne admits. “She’s afraid to leave Winterfell again. That’s why she’s gone to so much effort, to prove that Winterfell, I don’t know... _ needs _ her.”

Arya feels suddenly horrible for her sister. After all Sansa’s gone through, now she has to worry about another betrothal, another lord who will be cruel to her, another castle that will feel more like a cage. 

And what about Arya? Have they arranged a marriage for her, too? Will she be sent away just like Sansa? Will they ever see each other again? 

“Should I...speak to her?”

Jeyne shakes her head, a wry smile on her face. “No; I gave her some sweetsleep, just to make sure she got some rest tonight. She’ll be gone in a moment.”

Arya smiles. “That was smart.”

“Get some rest, Arya. Everything will be alright.”

Arya wants to believe her.

.

Sansa is blissfully calmer in the morning, still groggy from the effects of sweetsleep. The servants give her a wide berth, loath to incur the wrath of their lady. 

It’s nearly midday when the King in the North’s party is spotted coming through Winter Town. The household arranges themselves in the courtyard, patiently awaiting the arrival of their king (and the end of Sansa’s domestic tyranny). 

Arya stands beside her sister, dressed in a grey velvet gown trimmed in white fur that Sansa made for her. It’s one of the nicest dresses she owns, and Sansa notes it with approval. She herself looks resplendent in a soft blue to match her eyes.

A handful of soldiers ride in first, their horses kicking up mud. Behind them ride Theon and Brienne, and behind them is Rickon. He’s looking at Arya, shouting her name and pointing at something behind him. 

When Arya sees it, her heart stops.

Behind Rickon’s horse, trotting along beside Shaggydog, is a grey wolf with dark golden eyes. A wolf she’d never thought she’d see again.

Nymeria.

She breaks into a run, meeting the wolf in the middle. She’s so much bigger than she was, nearly towering over Arya now. That doesn’t stop Arya from throwing her arms around the wolf, burying her tear-stained face in her grey fur.

“Nymeria,” she murmurs.

The wolf licks her face, and through her tears, Arya laughs. 

 


	45. THEON XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna spoil anything in case you haven't seen the episode yet but UGH MY FEELINGS. If you have seen the episode and want to shout about it, please hit me up at jeynepoole.tumblr.com
> 
> I also have an announcement to make: because there's a lot going on and I'm antsy about the endgame of this series, I'm probably going to put this fic on a very, very temporary hiatus, just until I have a clearer idea about how the series will end and how I can make the most cohesive ending for this fic, if that makes sense. I may post sporadic updates here and there, but yeah, just so you know!

Theon watches Arya hug Nymeria with a smile. He’d been surprised when the direwolf had followed their party all the way from Riverrun, and not a little unnerved when her pack did the same. They followed them as far as Moat Cailin, and after that fell out of sight. No one’s seen them since, and the general assumption is that they returned to the Riverlands. Nymeria, however, has remained with them, as if she knows that Arya and one of her other brothers are waiting for her.

He dismounts from his horse now, handing the reins to a groom. Rickon and Lady Catelyn are speaking with Sansa, asking after Winterfell and the North. Theon stands patiently to the side, knowing that soon he will be dismissed and able to take a long, hot bath. 

His eyes catch Jeyne, standing behind Sansa, and for a moment, he is absolutely floored. He’s only been gone a few months, but Jeyne has grown a great deal in those few months. She truly looks a woman now, no longer a young girl. Gone is the childish roundness in her cheeks and her stick-thin shape; her body rounds out in soft curves, evident beneath her grey dress. 

It isn’t only that she’s a woman now; she’s a  _ beautiful _ woman. She was always pretty in a girlish sort of way, but there’s no denying the beauty in her now. 

He’s still slackjawed and stunned when the Starks head inside. He stumbles after them, and finds himself walking alongside Jeyne.

“How was King’s Landing?” she asks softly.

“Terrible,” he admits, trying not to look at her. “It was awful, to see everything gone. They’re rebuilding what they can, but Stannis isn’t ostentatious; I’d be surprised if there’s anything like a Red Keep built in his lifetime.”

“We’ll never have anything like a Red Keep, not after Maegor killed all the builders so no one could ever tell its secrets.” He can feel her eyes on him, but he can’t look at her; it would be too strange. 

Sansa leads the small party into one of the smaller chambers, where she closes the door. Rickon and Lady Catelyn look at her patiently. She nods at Jeyne, who comes forward, pulling a raven’s scroll from her sleeve.

“Ros was the only true friend I had in King’s Landing,” she begins. “She helped Theon get Sansa and me out of the city. She lives in Pentos now. Recently, I received this letter from her. In it, she tells me that Cersei and Tommen Lannister are alive and well and living in a manse in Pentos. They brought with them members of their household, including the knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant.”

“She’s sure of this?” Catelyn asks, her voice sharp as a whip.

“She is,” Jeyne confirms, glancing at Theon.

_ That Lannister cunt _ , he thinks, furious. She blew up the city and all the people in it while she was safe across the Narrow Sea. One million people and three hundred years of history all gone in the blink of an eye, and all so she wouldn’t have to surrender to Stannis. It was one thing for her to take King’s Landing down with her, but to destroy it while she got away…

“With your permission, Your Grace, I’d love to sail to Pentos and deal with her myself,” he says brusquely.

“You will do no such thing,” Catelyn orders, voice still sharp. “That woman is dangerous, and your place is by your king’s side.”

“She cannot be allowed to live in peace after what she’s done!” he protests. “My lady, you saw King’s Landing just as well as I did. She  _ murdered _ those people, all of them.”

“Believe me, Theon, I loathe her more than most. I truly do. But we must take care. She is a cunning woman, and she’ll be ready for an attack.”

She’s right, but Theon is so incensed he doesn’t care. 

“Do you think she means to come back?” Rickon asks. “Attack Stannis when he’s least expecting it?”

“She has no armies,” Catelyn points out. “She may have gold enough for a sellsword army, but she’d never be able to keep the peace even if they won the war; no one wants her ruling after what she’s done.”

“You think she’s just...going to live out her days in Pentos without hurting anyone?” Sansa asks skeptically.

“Think how many people were in King’s Landing. Think how many mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, wives and husbands and children and friends she killed. If any Westerosi learns her whereabouts, they’ll tell someone else, provided they don’t kill her first. No, she’ll keep quiet. She loves her children dearly; I imagine she only wants to live out her days with the only child left to her.”

“But what do we  _ do _ ?” Arya urges.

“We must tell Stannis for the sake of transparency,” Catelyn decides. “He is ruler of the Seven Kingdoms now, and what happens to Cersei will be his decision.”

“He should hire the Faceless Men of Braavos to kill her,” Arya offers. “That’s what I would do.”

Theon still wants to sail to Pentos and do the deed himself, but he knows Lady Catelyn is right; Cersei will be expecting someone to come after her, and if she has the Kingsguard with her, then Theon will have a fight on his hands. And his place  _ is _ with his king. He took an oath, and no one ever breaks that oath. 

“Rickon, you should write to Stannis yourself,” Catelyn urges. “This is a matter of great urgency, and it ought to come directly from you.”

Brienne raises a hand. “Before he does that, perhaps we ought to speak with the Kingslayer.”

“You think he knows about this?” Catelyn asks with surprise.

Theon steps forward. “I don’t think he did. He was a broken man when he was put on trial; he begged for us to kill him and scatter his ashes there, with his sister’s. He wouldn’t have begged for death if he knew she was waiting across the sea. And anyway, how would she have communicated with him? He was with Stannis the whole time.”

Sansa looks uneasy. “Do you think...we should tell him? That his...sister and son are alive?”

They all fall silent, considering.

“No,” Catelyn decides at last. “No, I don’t want to risk him...fleeing the country and going to her. But speaking of the Kingslayer, I have been thinking...and I believe it would be best if Brienne escorted him to the Wall.”

That surprises Theon. “Brienne is a member of the Kingsguard, my lady. Her place is by the king’s side.”

“Yes,” Catelyn allows. “But...Brienne is the most honorable person I know, as well as the most difficult to provoke. If we send our own men to the Wall, Lannister may well find himself having a fatal accident. I know Brienne would never kill Lannister unless her honor required her to do so, and if he tried to provoke her, he would only serve to anger himself.”

She’s right; Brienne has been dealing with men looking down on her and mocking her her whole life; what’s one broken, pathetic man making some weak attempt at gaining the upper hand?

“Alright,” Rickon agrees. “If Brienne agrees, that is.”

She bows her head. “It is my honor to serve you in whatever way you deem best, Your Grace.”

He looks over at his mother. “I’m going to write that letter to Stannis now. Perhaps Theon should write to Queen Asha?”

Theon bows his head. “I will, Your Grace.”

The Starks all pour from the room, Brienne trailing after them, but Theon hangs back to speak with Jeyne.

“Ros wrote you?” 

She nods. “She runs a pleasure house in Pentos now.”

The thought makes Theon smile. “Of course she does.”

Jeyne bites her lip, glancing down. “Meryn Trant came in one day. He didn’t recognize her, but...she recognized him. She followed him, and that’s how she found out about Cersei.”

He doesn’t know how to ask the question on his mind. “He’s the one who…?”

He doesn’t need to finish, because Jeyne nods. “Yes.”

“I have half a mind to sail to Pentos anyway,” he admits. “Run him through with my sword before I do the same to Cersei.”

“Ros says he’s dead.” Jeyne lifts her head. “She didn’t say how, but...I think she killed him.” There’s almost something like a smile on her face. 

“Good.”

She nods. “Yes. It is.”

“There’s still Cersei, though.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “But Lady Catelyn is right; your place is here, with the king.”

“It is,” he sighs. “You’re right. She’s right.”

Jeyne lays a hand on his arm. “I’m glad you’re back, Theon. Truly.”

And before he can say anything, she slips out of the room, the smell of lavender and rosemary lingering behind her.

.

Sansa feasts them in the great hall that night. Many of the northern lords or those they’ve sent in their place come to celebrate not only the return of the king, but also the end of Lannister tyranny. Theon is grateful to be back in his home, eating hearty northern food while surrounded by people he’s known almost his whole life. 

Maester Luwin had sent out the ravens earlier; one to King’s Landing, bearing Rickon’s letter to Stannis, and another to Pyke, bearing Theon’s letter to Asha. There isn’t much she’ll be able to do from the Sunset Sea, but at the very least, she deserves to know that Cersei is still alive and out there. 

A hot bath did more than clean the dirt of the road from Theon’s skin; it also cleared his mind and cooled his anger. Jeyne and Lady Catelyn are right; he asked to be a member of the Kingsguard, and he swore an oath to stay by the king’s side and protect him always. He can’t go gallivanting across the Narrow Sea to kill the most dangerous woman in the world. Stannis will take care of it, one way or another. He’d do well to take Arya’s advice and hire a Faceless Man, an assassin trained in the art of disguise. Theon only hopes that whatever happens, they send back her head. 

In a corner, the three direwolves sit off to the side, gnawing on the whole chickens the cooks have given them. Shaggydog, restless as always, gets up now and then to sniff under the tables for scraps of fallen food. When he brushes past Theon, he reaches down to scratch the beast behind the ears. Shaggy’s pink tongue lolls out in contentment. He seems just as happy as any of them to be home, back with his brother and their sister. 

Jeyne calls the wolf, who bounds over to her; she feeds him pieces of chicken, cooing at him and petting his enormous head. She kisses his snout, laughing when he licks her face. He puts one paw on her lap, trying to rise up to better lick her.

“Alright, enough of that,” Theon says, pulling the wolf down and away. “She doesn’t want your slobber all over her.”

“He’s alright,” she says, smiling up at him. “He’s just missed me is all.”

“He’s not the only one,” he says, determinedly not looking at her. “It’s good to see you again, Jeyne.”

“And you.”

He only then becomes aware of Sansa watching them, a secretive smile on her face. When she catches his glance, she looks away, the smile broadening. He mislikes that, and excuses himself to take up a place near Rickon. 

At a nearby table, a serving maid smiles invitingly at him. He knows that smile well; it’s the smile of a woman who wants him, an invitation for him to seek her out later. 

For some reason, his eyes flit back to Jeyne. She and Sansa are talking and giggling, oblivious to Theon’s gaze.

Strangely, he finds that he has no appetite for serving maids.

  
  



	46. JAIME I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao just kidding about the hiatus, Emily helped me figure out where I want this story to go and how, so we're back in business!
> 
> This chapter is a paltry substitute for Jaime and Brienne's canon interactions, and I APOLOGIZE for that. I did borrow heavily from the show dialogue for certain parts of this chapter, so at least there's some level of that.

“Stop dawdling, Kingslayer.”

Once, the words might have incensed Jaime.  _ Kingslayer. _ Is that all he’ll ever be known for? Killing a tyrant who deserved to die? 

But now.

Now. 

He might find it in him to be incensed with his punishment, if he could find it in him to feel anything at all. He hasn’t felt anything in a long time; not since they told him about his sister.

_ His sister. _

Cersei. The only woman he ever loved. Cersei, for whom he’d scaled the cliffs as a child, for whom he’d kill anyone, anything. He’d joined the Kingsguard for her, had endured Robert Baratheon for her, had lied and snuck around and did everything she commanded because he loved her.

_ And now she’s dead. _

He’d always thought, somehow, that they’d be reunited. That the Starks would lose the war and he’d get to go home and fuck his sweet sister again. It would be easier with Robert dead, easier now that their son was king. But then…

He should have been there. She never would have destroyed the city if he’d been there. He would have urged her to run away with him, them and their son, and live out the rest of their days in the Free Cities. They could have taken new names and lived together as man and wife as they’d always wanted to. Tommen would learn to accept it in time. He could be a scholar, studying at the finest institutions in Essos. It would have been what he’d wanted.

And now…

He’s jolted from his thoughts by the blonde-haired oaf reining her horse in front of his, her blue eyes narrowed. 

“I understand your reluctance to join the Night’s Watch, ser, but we’ll be here until the White Walkers come at the rate you’re going.”

“Good, let them come,” he says dully. 

Brienne of Tarth purses her lips. “Lady Catelyn charged me with taking you to the Wall--”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He moves his horse around hers, urging the beast on up the road. “Wouldn’t want you to disappoint dear Lady Catelyn.” 

He hears her horse follow after his. “There’s great honor in serving in the Night’s Watch.”

He snorts. “That’s what they say to all the murderers, rapers, and younger sons forced to take the black.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true,” she insists, reaching his side. “The Lord Commander will be grateful for your sword--”

“I’m sure he will. Plenty of good it will do him, rusting away in my scabbard while we defend the Wall from the wildlings. Oh!” he says sarcastically. “We’re letting them through the Wall now, aren’t we? What, then, am I going to defend the good people of Westeros from?”

Her lips purse. 

“Grumkins and snarks,” he goes on. “The people will be so grateful for my taking the black. They’ll sing songs in my honor and forget all about Aerys Targaryen.” He glances at the woman, who has nothing to say. 

Of course she doesn’t. No one ever knows what to say when he speaks of Aerys Targaryen.

.

Night is approaching when she speaks again.

“Is it true? About you and...your sister?”

She’s a brave wench, he’ll give her that; no one’s ever dared ask him about Cersei before. Not in that way, anyway. And he’s never told anyone. 

Until now.

“It’s true.”

She releases a shaky breath. “And...the children?”

“Mine.” Gods, it feels good to say it out loud to someone other than Cersei. 

Brienne is quiet for a long moment. Then, “Why?”

He shakes his head. “I loved her. And she loved me. We came into this world together. We’ve always understood each other as no one else ever has.”

“She was your  _ sister _ .”

He shakes his head. “She was more than just my sister. She was my everything.”

Brienne’s lips are still pursed, her gaze still on the horizon. He feels suddenly, irrationally angry.

“You asked, so I answered.”

“I only...want to understand.” 

“Targaryens wed brother to sister for thousands of years.”

“They were Targaryens. Not Lannisters.”

“You don’t think I know it’s wrong? An abomination?” he snaps, rounding on her. “I know. We both did; we always knew. But we couldn’t stop it. All our denial and protestation did nothing.” He looks away. “We can’t help who we love.”

To his surprise, the wench says softly, “I know.”

He looks over at her, and though she won’t meet his eyes, he can see grief etched on her face. 

“We should make camp,” she says abruptly. 

“There isn’t a holdfast nearby?”

She shakes her head. “If anyone recognized you, or me, we’d be in trouble. Better to stay away from people.”

She has a fair point; it’ll be his head if anyone recognizes him. 

They make camp on the edge of the wolfswood, Brienne tying Jaime to a tree while she builds a fire. 

“You realize this is completely unnecessary?” he drawls while she sets to work. “I have nowhere to go, and as you said earlier, if anyone recognizes me, I’m in trouble.”

She slows in her work but doesn’t look at him. 

“Am I meant to sleep like this?” he asks, looking at his surroundings with distaste. “My back isn’t what it used to be, I’ll be sore in the morning…”

She still says nothing.

“Did your honorable Lady Stark also tell you to mistreat me?”

“Stop your whinging,” she orders. “You’re fine.”

“It’ll be a relief to get to the Wall, you know; at least there I won’t be shackled every hour of the day.”

“That’s right; think positively,” she says in a deadpan. 

His head thunks back against the tree. This is going to be a longer journey than he thought.

.

To his surprise and pleasure, Brienne does unshackle him when it comes time to climb into their respective bedrolls. 

“I only don’t want to hear more whinging about your back being sore in the morning,” she explains crossly. “And anyway, even if you did manage to escape, the wolves would be on you in a second.”

He lies in his bedroll, staring up at the night sky. Somehow, the stars seem brighter up here in the North; more vivid. He traces the constellations he saw as a child; the lion, the dragon, the wolf. The hunter with his bow. The three sisters. The king and his crown. 

_ Tommen, _ he thinks, unbidden.  _ I’m sorry I failed you. _

.

When he wakes in the morning, Brienne is roasting rabbits over the fire. He sits up with a grunt, stretching.

“You’re up early.”

“He who rises first reaps the rewards,” she quotes.

“Did some prune-faced septa tell you that?”

She purses her lips, which more than answers his question. 

“Besides, you’re not really a ‘he’, are you?” he prods. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you  _ look _ like a man--”

“Oh, good,” she says irritably. “I’ve never heard  _ that _ before.”

“I suppose it isn’t very original,” he cedes. “But you’re hardly doing yourself any favors, you know.”

“My prune-faced septa tried to make me into a proper lady, if that’s what you mean. It didn’t work.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“I’m no lady.”

“Nor are you a knight.”

“I’m a member of the Kingsguard.”

“As am I,” he says, smirking when her face turns to stone. “You’re in good company, Brienne of Tarth.”

“Yes, well,” she says crossly. “I never killed my king.”

The smirk fades from his face. “Your king isn’t mad, though, is he?”

She glances at him, uncertainty in her blue eyes. “That’s no excuse, though.”

“It is when that madness nearly kills everyone in King’s Landing.”

She pauses. “What do you mean?”

He looks away. “Never mind.”

“What do you mean, when it nearly kills everyone in King’s Landing?”

“Nothing. That rabbit’s burning.”

She hastily removes the skewer, her mind preoccupied with their breakfast. He hopes it stays that way.

.

It gets colder throughout the day, the wind blowing snow and ice in their faces and making it impossible to talk. Jaime finds the lack of conversation maddening, but Brienne seems unconcerned; if anything, she seems to prefer it. 

She has far more patience and composure than anyone in her shoes ought to, and that maddens Jaime, too. How dare she find him tolerable when any sane man would have threatened to kill him by now? 

The wind and snow continue well into the night, and with reluctance, Brienne decides to stop in a small hamlet, where a farmer allows them to bed down in the barn. He feeds them bread, cured ham, and warm milk, and if he knows who they are, he says nothing. As soon as he’s gone, Jaime turns to Brienne.

“If you’re a member of the Kingsguard, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be guarding the king?”

“Lady Catelyn felt that if anyone else were to take you to the Wall, they would be tempted to kill you,” she says lightly. 

“And you aren’t?”

“Tempted, yes, but I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“It would be dishonorable to do so.”

“Do you think those men at the Wall will kill me?” he asks with pretend disinterest. “Kingslayer, sister-fucker,  _ Lannister _ ; I wonder which crime is the worst in their eyes?”

“Being a Lannister isn’t a crime.”

“Isn’t it?” 

She shifts uncomfortably. “Well. It doesn’t matter. You’ll be in good company on the Wall.”

“Why, are there many kingslayers and sister-fuckers and Lannisters on the Wall?”

Brienne doesn’t answer him. 

.

Every passing day grows colder and colder until Jaime can hardly stand it. 

“Now I know why there are no women in the Night’s Watch,” he says between chattering teeth. “Everyone’s balls must freeze off before they even reach the Wall.”

“Not much of a poet, are you?” Brienne says carelessly. 

“No, thank the gods.”

“At least you won’t be needing them.”

“No, I suppose not. Still. It’s a shame. We’ve been through so much together.”

Brienne does not dignify that with a response.

They mean to stop in Mole’s Town for the night, but the sky keeps growing darker and the wind keeps getting colder, and still there is no sign of the mining village. 

“We need to stop,” Jaime tells Brienne, raising his voice over the howling of the wind. “The horses are tired, and they can’t see the ground in this dark; last thing we need is for one of them to make a misstep.”

He’s right, and she knows he’s right. With great reluctance, she finds them a relatively secluded dip nestled between two hills, sheltered from the wind. Jaime builds a fire while she goes hunting for rabbits; she returns with a brace, and Jaime helps her skin and skewer them. They eat in silence, staring into the flames. Tomorrow, they’ll reach the Wall, where Jaime will spend the rest of his life. It may not even last that long; he knows he has enemies on the Wall, and he wouldn’t put it past some embittered farmboy to take his frustrations out on an easy target. Jaime doubts anyone would stop them.

“Best get some sleep,” Brienne says unnecessarily. “It’ll be a long ride tomorrow.”

“At least it’ll be the last time you have to see me,” he says lightly.

Brienne doesn’t say anything.

They climb into their respective bedrolls, pulling the furs around them, but the ground is damned cold and it seeps into the bedrolls. Even lying right beside the fire, even bundled in every fur the Starks gave him, he’s freezing.

Brienne isn’t faring much better; he can literally hear her teeth chattering, can see her shivering beneath the furs. 

“Perhaps we should have tried for Mole’s Town,” he allows.

“It’s too late for that now,” she huffs. 

He lies there for a long moment, willing the cold to lessen.

It won’t.

“We should lie together,” he suggests.

“No  _ thank _ you,” she snaps.

“Not like  _ that _ . I’m not interested.” The thought of  _ him _ wanting  _ her _ ...it’s laughable, really. “Alright then. If I freeze to death, at least run a sword through me so it looks like I died in battle. I don’t intend to be the first Lannister to die of the  _ cold _ .”

“Why should I care how you die?” she mumbles. 

“I thought Lady Catelyn entrusted me to you because you  _ wouldn’t _ let me die.” When she says nothing, he prods, “Come on, we’ll both freeze to death if we don’t keep each other warm. Let’s call a truce.”

“You need trust to have a truce.”

He finds himself saying, “I trust you.”

And he does. Lady Catelyn trusts her, and Lady Catelyn is a shrewd woman. He knows that if he was in danger, Brienne would protect him. Not because of a reward, not because of what she would get out of it, but because it would be the right thing to do. 

“I don’t trust you.”

“Of course you don’t,” he snorts, wishing that didn’t hurt as much as it did. “Nobody trusts me. You all  _ despise _ me. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor.” He doesn’t know what motivates him to say what he does next. Perhaps it’s because he’s admitted to trusting her and she won’t do the same. Perhaps it’s because he’s tired of holding it back. “You’ve heard of wildfire?”

“Of course.”

“The Mad King was obsessed with it. He loved to watch people burn. The way their skin blackened and blistered and melted off their bones. He burned lords he didn’t like. He burned Hands who disobeyed him. He burned anyone who was against him. Before long, half the country was against him. Aerys saw traitors everywhere. So he had his pyromancer place caches of wildfire all over the city--beneath the Sept of Baelor and the slums of Flea Bottom. Under houses, stables, taverns, even beneath the Red Keep itself.”

Brienne sits up, looking hard at him. 

“Yes, my sweet sister knew about those caches. I’m the one who told her.” He closes his eyes, trying not to think about Cersei. “Finally, the day of reckoning came. Robert Baratheon marched on the capital after his victory at the Trident. But my father arrived first, with the whole Lannister army at his back, promising to defend the city against the rebels.” He opens his eyes, looking at Brienne. “I knew my father better than that. He’s never been one to pick the losing side. I told the Mad King as much. I urged him to surrender peacefully, but the king didn’t listen to me. He didn’t listen to Varys who tried to warn him. But he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle, that grey sunken cunt. ‘You can trust the Lannisters,’ he said. ‘The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.’ So...we opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Once again, I came to the king,  _ begging _ him to surrender. He told me to bring him my father’s head. Then he turned to his pyromancer. ‘Burn them all,’ he said. ‘Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.’ Tell me, if your precious Lady Catelyn commanded you to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women, and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”

Brienne has no answer.

He wasn’t expecting her to.

“First, I killed the pyromancer, and then, when the king turned to flee, I drove my sword into his back. ‘Burn them all,’ he kept saying. ‘Burn them all.’ I don’t think he expected to die. He meant to burn with the rest of us and rise again, reborn as a dragon to turn his enemies to ash. I slit his throat to make sure that didn’t happen. That’s where Ned Stark found me.”

“If this is true,” Brienne says slowly, “why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell Lord Stark?”

“Lord Stark,” he mocks. “You think the honorable Ned Stark wanted to hear my side? He judged me guilty the moment he set eyes on me.”

“Kingslayer--”

“Jaime.” He closes his eyes again. “My name is Jaime.” 

His eyes open, however, when he hears Brienne moving around. To his great surprise, she moves her bedroll beside his, laying their combined furs over both of them. Stiffly, she wraps her arms around him. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she asks briskly. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, wench.” He puts his arms around her all the same.

They sleep, warm under the furs.

  
  



	47. CERSEI II

Cersei lies in her bed, staring up at the canopy. Through the wall, she can hear Tommen’s sobs. 

Always sobbing, her poor little boy. He hasn’t recovered yet from the shock. He won’t speak to her, won’t speak to anyone if he can help it. He eats as little as possible and takes the medicines Qyburn spoon-feeds him. He lies awake all night and sleeps through much of the day. 

He’ll recover soon enough. Once he’s finished grieving over Margaery, that whore. She’ll buy him a kitten, and that will distract him. He’s always liked kittens. No doubt half of his tears are for Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers. 

Someday, he’ll see. He’ll understand that it was the only way they could live happily ever after. They would have taken him from her had they surrendered. And had they not surrendered…

Well.

She had been prepared to end both their lives at the same time. She was every bit as determined then as she had been during the Battle of the Blackwater. But then it had occurred to her...wouldn’t that be letting Stannis win? He wants her dead, her and Tommen; why should she give that to him? 

It had taken time and effort, and it would have been impossible without Qyburn’s little birds. They placed the jars of wildfire all over the city, ensuring that every inch of King’s Landing would blow to pieces. A Pentoshi privateer had been bribed well enough to wait in the harbor; in the dead of night, Cersei, Qyburn, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Gregor, and an unconscious Tommen had slipped out of the Red Keep through the dungeons below. By the time Tommen had awoken, they were crossing into the Narrow Sea--but they were not so far away that he hadn’t seen the smoke rising. 

_ He’ll get over it soon enough, _ she tells herself.  _ He must. _

Perhaps she ought to let him wander around the city. That might lift his spirits. Though it will be harder to do now without Ser Meryn. 

That had been a nasty bit of business. She’d been sure that someone had found out about them, but nothing else has come of his death. 

“He told me he was going to visit a pleasure house; perhaps some ruffians followed him home and mugged him,” Qyburn had suggested. “In any case, it’s highly unlikely anyone realized the truth. Why stop at Ser Meryn? If they were angry with you, Your Grace, they would have taken it a step further.”

That is true, and the only reason she finds any sleep at night.

Except for tonight. 

She rolls onto her side, sighing. She had been looking forward to coming here. To living out the rest of her days with her lovely boy. Not this. Not lying here listening to him cry over people she hated.

She makes up her mind to get out of bed, pulling a shawl around her shoulders before padding on bare feet across the flagstones. She knocks on his door, listening for a reply.

There is none, so she pushes open the door. “Tommen? Are you alright, darling?”

He’s sitting up in bed, his back to her; she can see him wiping his eyes. 

“Tommen?”

“Go  _ away _ ,” he snarls, still not looking at her. Well, at least he’s talking to her. 

She takes a deep breath. “Everything I did, I did for you.”

“You killed one million people, including my  _ wife _ , for  _ me _ ?” he spits, finally turning around to look at her. His eyes are red and glassy with tears.

“Yes.” She comes around the bed, kneeling beside him. “I would do anything for you. To keep you  _ safe _ . And that is exactly what I have done. Do you think you would have been safe if Stannis knew you were alive? He would have taken you from me. You would have been a prisoner for the rest of your life, and I...I would have been killed. Executed. You would never have seen me again, or your sister.”

Tommen fixes her with a long, hard look. “Is it true? About you and Uncle Jaime?”

She does not know quite how to answer him. 

“It is, isn’t it?” he asks in a hushed voice. “I don’t look anything like Fa...King Robert. None of us do. Joffrey, Myrcella, me. I have no claim to the throne. I should never have sat upon it.”

She reaches up, gripping his chin. “Everything I did, I did for the three of you.  _ Everything _ . I couldn’t have born it if you were Robert’s children. He was so cruel to me, and Jaime...Jaime always loved me. He never hurt me.”

A shadow passes across Tommen’s face. “Robert...hurt you?”

She strokes his cheek. “Yes. I swore I would never let anyone hurt me ever again. And they haven’t. They’ve tried, but none of them have succeeded.”

Tommen looks away. “You killed all those people.”

“Stannis had to believe we were dead.”

“But...the whole city?”

She strokes his cheek again. “Don’t fret about it anymore, my love. We’re safe here, and soon, your sister will be with us.”

“Myrcella?” He looks back at her. “How? When?”

“Soon,” she promises. “I’ve made arrangements. Chin up, my darling. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the market. Would you like that?”

He looks uncertain. “I suppose…”

“We’ll get to be normal people for once in our lives. Not Queen Cersei and King Tommen. Just a mother and her son.” 

He considers. “Well...perhaps.” 

She smiles. “Shall I ask Qyburn to make you something to help you sleep?”

He shakes his head. “No thank you. I’ll manage.”

She rises up, kissing his cheek. “I love you, my sweet boy.”

He doesn’t answer her.

That’s alright. He’ll get over it soon enough.

He must.


	48. JEYNE IX

Jeyne, Sansa, and Lady Catelyn are all sitting in the solar when Lady Catelyn broaches the subject. 

“Sansa, now that the war is over, it’s high time you marry.”

Sansa looks up from her needlework, face pale. “Mother, please don’t make me.”

“No one is going to  _ make _ you,” Catelyn says disapprovingly. “But as Rickon’s heir, it is of the utmost importance that you marry, and soon. If Rickon should die without a child, you will be Queen in the North. We need to make allies.”

“I don’t want to be Queen in the North.”

“Nevertheless, you must be prepared in case something happens to Rickon.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Sansa demands. 

“Sansa, you’re being hysterical.” Catelyn reaches over, taking her daughter’s hand. “We won’t let you marry another Joffrey.”

“You didn’t have much say in it the first time,” Sansa mumbles.

Catelyn glances over at Jeyne. “Jeyne, could you give us a moment alone?”

“Of course, my lady.” Jeyne rises, leaving her needlework in her chair. Sansa gives her a pleading look, but Jeyne dares not defy Lady Catelyn. She curtsies and then hastily exits the solar.

Poor Sansa. She’s been dreading this conversation for some time now, and Jeyne can’t blame her. There’s no telling how far south Sansa might have to move, away from her family and any protection.

_ At least she’ll have me. _ Jeyne is determined to follow Sansa anywhere, be it Dorne or Casterly Rock. Perhaps they’ll even send Theon or Brienne with her; after all, the Lannisters sent Ser Arys Oakheart with Princess Myrcella when she left for Dorne. Why shouldn’t they do the same for Sansa?

She crosses the yard and hears a familiar voice accompanied by the twang of arrows. When she rounds the corner, she sees Theon instructing Rickon in archery. He looks up at her with a grin.

“And speaking of the finest archers in the world…”

“Did you hit your head?” she asks, smiling. 

“You’re a fair archer, Lady Poole.”

“ _ Fair _ archer, and even that is generous; I’m far from the finest archers in the world.”

“Go on, Jeyne,” Rickon urges, holding out his bow. 

“Your Grace, archery is unseemly for ladies.”

“I’m the king, and I say archery  _ is _ seemly for ladies,” he says stubbornly. 

Jeyne laughs. “Well, I can’t really argue with that logic, can I?” She takes the bow and arrow he offers. It’s been a while since she used them, but the muscle memory comes back to her easy enough. She raises the bow, letting her eye find the target.

Theon comes up behind her, his hands resting over hers. Jeyne sucks in a breath at his closeness, the feel of his chest pressed against her back.

“Here,” he murmurs, correcting her grip.

“Oh.” She watches him move her into place, hoping he can’t feel her heart pounding. 

“Ready?”

“Yes,” she says far too breathlessly. His hands slide back, and Jeyne releases the arrow.

She hits the heart of the target.

Rickon cheers. “Well done!”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she says, stepping back. “Though I’m afraid I can take no credit; Theon is the one who aimed my arrow.”

“I did very little; you have a gift for archery.” He smiles at her. “Try it again without me.”

“Yes, try it again!” Rickon echoes. 

Jeyne takes another arrow from the king and nocks it. She admits to a little disappointment at not feeling Theon behind her, but when she lets her arrow fly, it lands right next to the other one. Rickon cheers again, and Jeyne flushes with pride.

“See?” Theon says. “You have a gift.”

“I had a good teacher.” 

“Are you done flirting yet?” Arya stomps over to the three of them, wearing training leathers and carrying a sword. “Come on, Rickon.”

“Jeyne hit the bullseye twice,” he tells his sister excitedly. “She’s almost as good as me.”

“No one’s as good as me,” Arya says proudly. “Now, are you ready for me to knock you into the dirt?”

“You won’t!” The two siblings run off, bickering good-naturedly.

Theon looks at Jeyne. “I should go make sure they don’t kill each other.”

“Probably wise,” she agrees. 

He lingers for a long moment, however, and it isn’t until they hear an indignant shout that he rolls his eyes and jogs over to the Stark siblings. 

Jeyne hardly has time to process what just happened when she hears a cry of, “There you are!”

Turning, she sees Sansa, an angry flush on her face.

“What did your mother say?”

“Just that I ought to get married. She named some...suitors.”

“Like who?”

Sansa takes her arm, sighing. “She thinks Lord Karstark would be best, given our families’ history; she thinks it might soothe tensions between us. She also suggested someone from the Reach--a Redwyne or Tarly--or my cousin Robin, or his heir, Harrold Hardyng. Even Lord Royce has been pressing the suit of his son in exchange for his help in the war, and Mother would be hard pressed to refuse him.”

“Lord Karstark might not be so bad,” Jeyne offers, trying to soothe her friend. “He might not be anything like his father. And anyway, Karhold is in the North.”

“That’s true,” Sansa says, still looking upset. 

“The Reach could be nice, too; it’s supposed to be lovely there.”

“Yes, but it’s so far from the North.”

“What about the Vale?”

Sansa wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to marry Robin. Arya says he’s sickly and spoiled.”

“Perhaps he’ll die at a young age and you’ll be left a wealthy widow.”

“Jeyne!” 

Jeyne shrugs, but she can’t hide the smile on her face. “I’m only teasing. If he didn’t die young, you’d be stuck with him forever, and we wouldn’t want that.”

“Andar Royce would be a good match,” Sansa says, distracted out of her earlier fury. “I’ve actually met him, and he was kind and gallant.”

“How will your mother decide?”

Sansa shrugs. “I don’t know. She said I can have a say. First, though, she wants to secure Rickon’s betrothal.”

“To whom?”

“Lyanna Mormont. That was my suggestion.” Sansa smiles. “She’s of an age with Rickon, and fierce as a wolf; she’ll make him a good queen.”

That she will; the youngest daughter of Maege Mormont has already shown her prowess at ruling and commanding men, and that will serve the North well. 

“I wish she’d let me marry Lord Cerwyn,” Sansa says suddenly. “It’s so  _ close _ to Winterfell.”

“Priority should be given to the Karstarks,” Jeyne says, thinking out loud. “They’re a larger house, and they might take insult to you marrying a northern lord of a lesser house. They wouldn’t take offense if you married a Vale lord, though; they’d understand you have to make alliances.”

“Who even says Harrion Karstark  _ wants _ to marry me? What if he’s angry that we killed his father and will be cruel to me?”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

Sansa gives her a look. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.” Jeyne grabs her arm, stopping. “Sansa, you are my truest friend. You’re the sister I never had. I will follow you anywhere. And if anyone hurts you, I’ll kill them. I’m not afraid to do it.”

Sansa looks surprised at this speech. “Jeyne…”

Jeyne squeezes her hand. “Don’t fret about it.” She loops her arm through Sansa’s again, walking onward. “So, how is Rickon going to present his suit to little Lyanna?”


	49. JAIME II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway if you're upset about last night's episode, remember that this fic is always here and it WILL have a happy ending!!!!!!

It’s still early afternoon when they reach Castle Black, but the sky is already changing. 

“Who goes there?” a sentry asks above the gate.

“Brienne of King Rickon’s Kingsguard and Ser Jaime Lannister. Ser Jaime has been sentenced to take the black by King Stannis.”

“Much good may it do him,” the sentry says before raising the gate.

Castle Black is somehow even more miserable than Jaime imagined. The yard is muddy, the castle old and crumbling. Wooden walkways line the stone, but they’ve seen better days. 

Only a handful of men are in the yard, but all of them stop and look up at the new arrivals. Jaime wonders if it’s because they heard his name, or merely because of the presence of the woman beside him. Perhaps it’s a little of both. 

A man with long hair pushed back from his forehead comes out to meet them. “Welcome to Castle Black.”

“Thank you.” Brienne dismounts. “I am Brienne of King Rickon’s Kingsguard. He charged me with delivering Jaime Lannister to you.”

The man’s eyes wander over to Jaime. “The Kingslayer?”

“Ser Jaime was sentenced to the Wall by King Stannis; he felt his talents as a warrior would be put to good use here,” she says tactfully. Jaime could kiss her for that. 

“Aye, we need every man we can get here,” the other man agrees. “Killing White Walkers won’t be like killing kings, that’s for sure.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “White Walkers? Am I also to face grumkins and snarks?”

The man spits. “Just wait and see, Lannister. Just wait and see.” He turns back to Brienne. “It will get dark soon, my lady; you’re welcome to stay the night here.”

“Thank you…?”

“Edd Tollett, my lady.” Edd Tollett turns and waves. When Jaime looks at where Edd Tollett is looking, he feels his stomach twist, for across the yard is none other than Ned Stark’s bastard.

The boy is a man now. He has a full beard on his face, not that laughable attempt at one he’d had before, and though his body is obscured by a thick black cloak and black leathers, he has the walk of a fighter. He’s seen things, Jon Snow has. 

He comes striding towards them now, his eyes on Jaime. To Jaime’s displeasure, a smirk tugs on Jon Snow’s face.

“Lord Commander,” Edd Tollett says, and doesn’t  _ that _ feel like a kick to the gut. “Brienne of your brother’s Kingsguard has brought Jaime Lannister to Castle Black.”

“We’re glad to have him,” Jon Snow says, still smirking. “Edd, would you show Lady Brienne to her room?”

“Why not,” Edd says gloomily, leading Brienne up and into the keep.

“Last time I saw you, you were mocking me for joining the Night’s Watch,” Jon says. “Now here you are.”

“Now here I am,” Jaime agrees stiffly. 

Jon shakes his head. “I won’t torment you, Lannister; not too much. You’ve had a hard go of it, and things aren’t about to get any easier.”

Jaime admires the honesty in Jon’s words. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” 

Jaime glances around them. “Your man Tollett mentioned White Walkers. Is he mad?”

Jon’s face turns grave. “No. He’s many things, Edd, but mad isn’t one of them. The White Walkers are real. I’ve seen them. I’ve fought them. I’ve watched them turn corpses into wights. They’re coming for the living.”

Jaime stares at him. Either Jon is having a go at him, or he’s serious. When a long moment passes and Jon doesn’t laugh, Jaime clears his throat. “You expect me to believe that, Snow?”

“That’s Lord Commander Snow to you,” Jon says patiently. “And no, I don’t. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I don’t expect you to either. But what I’m telling you is the truth. I pray the day never comes when you see for yourself.” He jerks his head. “Go on and find a room. There are more rooms than men at Castle Black, so you can have your pick. Hobb will have a stew on.”

Jaime nods and goes to his horse, retrieving his meager things. 

“Oh, and Lannister?”

He looks up at Jon.

“Sleep with a blade close by.”

.

Jaime finds a room in an abandoned tower. He gets linens from one of the stewards, a pock-faced youth with a sullen look, and sets about making the room as livable as he can. It’s bare and cold, the wind howling past his window, and the wooden stairs creak whenever he walks on them, but that’s a good thing; it means he’ll be able to hear if he has unwelcome nighttime visitors. 

When it grows dark and his stomach begins to rumble, he takes a deep breath and heads for the hall.

The men inside are talking and laughing, but some of them go quiet when they see him. He ignores them. He’s always been good at ignoring stares. He takes a bowl of stew and a heel of black bread and then turns to find a place to sit. 

Every gaze he meets stares mistrustfully back at him, defying him to sit with them. He should have seen that coming. He looks for an empty enough place, some corner that isn’t too occupied, when he sees Brienne. She’s sitting at the far end of the room across from a man with wild red hair, and when his eyes meet hers, she nods. Relieved, he makes his way to the back, ignoring the stares and the feet placed in his way. 

He’s breathing hard by the time he sits beside Brienne, and he forces his hands under the table so no one sees them shake.

“They call you King-Killer,” the redheaded man says. Jaime sees that he isn’t wearing black, but rather a shoddy collection of furs. His hair and beard are thick and wild, and his accent is one he’s unfamiliar with.

He glances at Brienne, who is paying admirable attention to her stew. “I’m sure someone does.”

“They call me Tormund Giantsbane,” the redhead boasts. “Want to know why?”

Jaime glances at Brienne again. 

“When I was ten, I killed a giant, and after, I climbed into bed beside his wife. When she woke up, know what she did?” Tormund Giantsbane leans forward. “She suckled me at her teat for three months. Thought I was her baby. That’s how I got so strong. Giant’s milk.” And with that, he raises his goblet, staring at Brienne as he drinks all of it.

It only takes a moment for Jaime to piece things together. Brienne has an  _ admirer _ . He doesn’t know whether or not to laugh. 

“You look like you’re part giant yourself,” he offers to Brienne when he’s finished downing his ale.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Brienne says diplomatically. 

“You sure? Where are you from?”

“Tarth.”

“Where?”

“Tarth. The Sapphire Isle?” When Tormund looks uncomprehending, she says, “It’s an island in the Stormlands.”

“Stormlands? I like the sound of that.”

“Where are you from?” Jaime asks, more amused than anything at this fellow.

“North of here.”

Jaime raises his eyebrows. “North of here? Are you a wildling?”

Tormund throws his head back and laughs. “Am I a wildling? Of course I’m a wildling! Why else do you think I’m not wearing black?”

“I assumed you were a new recruit of the Night’s Watch.”

Tormund shakes his head. “I like women too much to take the black.” He looks hopefully at Brienne. “I’ve been told I’m a good lover.”

Brienne looks decidedly uncomfortable. 

“Do you believe in the White Walkers too?” Jaime asks.

All the mirth leaves Tormund’s face. “Aye, I believe. I’ve seen too many people turn into wights to not believe.”

Jaime and Brienne exchange a look. 

“Why else do you think the Wall was built?” he challenges. 

“To keep out wildlings,” Jaime says without thinking.

Tormund shakes his head. “The Army of the Dead is real, and they’re coming for all of us. Even you, King-Killer.” He tears a chunk off of his drumstick. 

It unsettles Jaime perhaps more than it ought to. Everyone’s heard the stories about the White Walkers, but they were just that--stories. Most told by wet-nurses to frighten their young charges. White Walkers aren’t  _ real _ .

Except...everyone here seems to believe they are. Not just believe; they all claim to have  _ seen _ them. Jaime wants to chalk it up to being isolated in this frozen hell for too long, but something doesn’t sit right with him. 

If the Army of the Dead  _ is _ real, then they’re all in a lot of trouble.

.

Jaime sleeps hard in his new bed. He hasn’t had a real bed in a long time now; the closest he ever came was a filthy straw pallet in a dungeon. With the fire burning and furs tucked around him, he falls asleep instantly.

No one disturbs his slumber, for which he’s grateful; he wouldn’t put it past the honorable brothers of the Night’s Watch to give him an unpleasant initiation. Instead, he wakes to his room exactly as he left it, with not a sign that anyone has been in to visit. 

He’s tempted to stay in bed a little longer, as it’s nice and warm under the furs and it will be cold and miserable out there, but the rumbling of his stomach urges him to get up. He dresses swiftly and silently before heading down to breakfast. 

Brienne is already in the yard, cloaked and ready; her horse is saddled and packed. 

“Leaving so soon?” 

She bows her head. “Ser Jaime. I was up early. I’m glad you’re awake; I was afraid I would have to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Careful, Lady Brienne, or people will start to think you like me.”

She smiles. It surprises him, as she never smiles around him. It quite becomes her. “Perhaps I do not dislike you as much as I once did.”

“A ringing endorsement if ever I heard one.”

She extends her hand. “I wish you good fortune, Ser Jaime.”

He grasps her hand. “I wish you the same, Lady Brienne.” His hand lingers in hers for a long moment, and then she pulls away, mounting her horse. A brother of the Night’s Watch opens the gate for her, and Jaime watches what might be his only friend in the world ride away.

  
  



	50. MYRCELLA I

When Myrcella awakes, she’s lying in a bed that she doesn’t recognize. Outside, birds chirp and children laugh. Her head feels like cotton, and when she tries to sit up, the room spins. She sinks back against the pillows, groaning. 

This isn’t the sept in Oldtown. She doesn’t know where it is, but not there. Not the hiding place the Martells had relegated her to. 

That had stung, when they’d told her. Prince Doran had been kind but firm. She is a bastard, the product of incest, and she is unfit to marry his only remaining son. They will make arrangements for her, take care of her, but now, Trystane must marry Princess Shireen.

_ It’s not her he loves. It’s me.  _

Doreah Sand had taken her to Oldtown in the dark of the night. She hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to Trystane. She knows that they won’t have told him where she is. They’ll want him to forget her so that he can marry Shireen.

Myrcella had always liked Shireen. The other girl had not often been at court, but when she was, she and Myrcella were joined at the hip. Shireen had never begrudged Myrcella her good looks and good fortune; she had always been content to follow the princess.

And now she’s the princess, and Myrcella is the one no one will want to marry. 

Some part of her has always known the truth, about her mother and Uncle Jaime. She can’t explain how she knows, just that she does. It makes sense. More sense than her being Robert Baratheon’s daughter. She and her brothers looked nothing like the old king; they were every inch Lannister. 

Joffrey. Tommen. Both dead now. One killed at his wedding feast, the other killed by their own mother. 

Myrcella’s eyes sting with tears. She’d always known her grandfather was a ruthless man, and her own mother had prided herself on it, but to destroy an entire city…

The door to her room opens, and Myrcella decides she must still be asleep, for in walks her mother.

“There’s my darling girl,” Cersei coos, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling, sweetling?”

“I want to wake up,” Myrcella murmurs.

“You are awake, darling. Bronn gave you milk of the poppy; it must not have worn off yet.”

Bronn. Milk of the poppy. 

She tries to sit up again and feels her stomach lurch. “I’m...I’m going to be sick.”

Cersei produces a chamberpot, into which Myrcella empties the meager contents of her stomach. It all comes back now with startling clarity, the two men who faces she kept seeing before they’d spoon feed her more milk of the poppy. Even when she’d been awake, she hadn’t been truly conscious, observing everything in a passive haze. 

“What’s going on?” she rasps when she’s finished, wiping her mouth.

Cersei goes to the side table, dipping a cloth in water and coming back to press it against Myrcella’s face.  _ Just like she used to when I was little. _

“You’re in Pentos. Tommen and I escaped King’s Landing before it was destroyed, and I sent Bronn and his squire to bring you to us. We’re together again, and no one will ever come between us.”

Something doesn’t feel right. “How did you escape?”

“Hush now.” Cersei urges her to lie back. “You’re still groggy.”

“Weren’t you the one who blew up King’s Landing?” When her mother doesn’t answer, Myrcella twists away in horror. “You did. You destroyed the city and killed all those people all while you and Tommen traipsed across the ocean! You...you  _ monster _ !”

“Myrcella,” Cersei says patiently, but Myrcella shakes her head. 

“You’re a murderer! You lay with your own brother and passed off his children as King Robert’s, you put them on the throne, and when the rightful king came to take that throne, you blew up the city and ran away!”

“I can see you are emotional,” Cersei says, her face a stone mask. “I’ll leave you to sleep off the effects of the milk of the poppy. I’m in the next room, so if you need anything, you only have to call.”

Myrcella turns her head away, waiting for her mother to leave. When she hears the door shut, she rolls onto her side and buries her face in the pillows, crying. Why, oh why couldn’t her mother have left her Oldtown? Why did she have to bring her here? It was one thing to let her believe that her mother and brother were dead, but to bring her here…

The door opens again.

“Go away!” Myrcella howls.

“It’s...it’s me.”

She looks over her shoulder and sees a boy she hardly recognizes.

“T-Tommen?”

He comes forward, looking nervous. “I didn’t know what she was going to do, I swear it. She had me drugged and carried out of the Red Keep in the dead of night. I didn’t know we were leaving until we were on the ship to Pentos.” 

She sits up, reaching out her arms. “Oh, come here, Tommen.”

He sits on the bed, throwing his arms around her and holding her tight.

“You’re quite grown up,” she murmurs in disbelief. 

“So are you.” He smiles at her. “You’re so beautiful, Myrcella.”

“Thank you.” She touches his face, unable to believe that her sweet, chubby little brother has turned into this tall, handsome young man. 

“I’m sorry about Mother.” 

She shakes her head. “It isn’t your fault.”

“Still; I feel...responsible. I’m the king--or I was. I should have known.”

“You couldn’t have known. She’s adept at keeping secrets from us.” She hesitates. “Do you...know about…”

“Our father?” He looks grim. “I know. She told me.”

She shakes her head. “I always suspected, but…”

“You suspected?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. They seemed...different. And she never loved Fa--King Robert. I could tell.”

“She never loved anyone but us.” 

“Tommen...we have to get out of here.”

His eyes widen. “How?”

“I don’t know. But we have to try. We can’t stay here with her.”

He bites his lip. “Everything she did, she did for us. To be with us again.”

“She killed people, Tommen.  _ Thousands _ . Can you ever truly forgive her that?”

Tommen looks away. 

She puts her arms around her brother. “She is my mother and I will always love her. But I can’t be here with her. I will never be able to look at her without being reminded of the things she’s done.”

Tommen shakes his head. “We’d never be able to leave, even if we wanted to. Ser Gregor takes orders from her; he’d never let us out of his sight.”

“Ser Gregor? He’s dead.”

Tommen looks up at her, suddenly fearful. “He’s not. They said he died, but Qyburn...did something to him.”

“Qyburn?”

“Mother’s pet. He was a maester until the Citadel expelled him. He likes to...experiment. Ser Gregor was one of his experiments. He’s not the same as he used to be. He’s...scarier now.”

“He was always scary.”

“It’s worse now.” He lays a hand on hers. “Trust me, Myrcella; you don’t want to cross him.”

“What will he do? Kill us?”

Tommen doesn’t answer, and somehow, that’s all the answer she needs. She’ll have to think about this, when her head isn’t so foggy with milk of the poppy. Somehow or other, she’ll get them out of here. 

  
  



	51. SANSA X

News comes from the Last Hearth: the Smalljon is to wed Roslin Frey. They met while the northern troops were in the Riverlands, and apparently he fell head over heels for her. 

Lady Catelyn invites the Umbers to stay a while in Winterfell upon their return north, to celebrate the marriage and to welcome the newest member of the family to the North. She invites all the great houses of the North, but takes special care to ensure that Maege Mormont and Harrion Karstark are present.

“I see what she’s doing,” Sansa tells Jeyne when they go to bed that night. “She wants to snap up a Mormont betrothal and a Karstark wedding all at the same time.” 

“Is that so bad?” 

“I suppose not,” Sansa concedes. “But I’d hoped the Mormont betrothal would be dealt with before she started in on me.”

“Maybe he won’t be bad,” Jeyne soothes. “Maybe you’ll like him. Maybe you’ll even love him.”

“Maybe.” Sansa isn’t so sure. Why should she love Harrion Karstark? Why should he love her? 

“Would you rather not marry at all?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well?” Jeyne props her head on her hand. “Would you?”

Sansa stares at her. “I have to marry.”

“Yes, but do you  _ want _ to?”

Sansa lies back, staring up at the ceiling. “I...I’d never really thought about it. I never had a choice. It was always expected of me.” She considers Jeyne’s question. “I don’t want to marry someone unless I love them, or at least like them very much. The thought of marrying someone I don’t like, spending the rest of my life at their side…” She shakes her head. “I don’t think I could do it.”

“Let me sniff out Harrion Karstark’s true nature,” Jeyne offers. “Servants like to talk; I can learn more from them in an hour than you can learn from Lord Karstark in a week.”

Jeyne’s right, and it  _ is _ a good idea. Lord Karstark might be charming to Sansa but a brute in truth, and only his servants would know. 

“You would do that for me?”

“I would do anything for you. Gossiping with servants is no trial.”

Sansa reflects, not for the first time, that she’s glad Jeyne is her friend. 

.

The Umbers, Mormonts, and Karstarks all accept Lady Catelyn’s offer, and in a matter of weeks, Winterfell becomes full to bursting with visitors. Catelyn has even invited some of the other houses so as not to look suspicious, and the added guests have them all running amok. 

Maege Mormont and her daughters are the first to arrive, filling Winterfell with their booming voices. Arya adores the Mormonts and spends as much time as she can with them, riding and hunting and sparring. 

Hot on their heels are the Glovers. Lord Galbart, his brother Robett, and Robett’s wife Sybelle are well-mannered, but Robett’s children are just as loud as Alysanne Mormont’s, and they wreak all sorts of havoc. Oddly, Catelyn does not seem to mind; she watches them with a smile whenever they pass.

“It’s nice to have children in Winterfell again,” she comments. “I pray Lady Lyanna is as fertile as her mother and will give Rickon many children.”

Sansa suddenly, desperately finds herself wishing women were allowed to marry each other. She would be so happy with one of the Mormont women. Bear Island isn’t  _ so _ far from Winterfell, and she’d be with people she trusts. None of these scheming lords, the only remaining son of a traitor, a sickly boy cousin she’s never met. 

“I wish Dacey Mormont was a boy,” she tells Jeyne when they ready for bed that night.

“What?” 

“I wish I could marry one of the Mormonts. I don’t care which one. I like them. I  _ trust _ them.”

“You could marry Lord Glover,” Jeyne suggests dispassionately. “He’s as close as you’ll get to Bear Island.”

“He’s  _ old _ . And anyway, Robett would take offense; he’s widely acknowledged as Lord Galbart’s heir; if I came along and bore him a son, that would put Robett out of the inheritance.” She climbs into bed, sinking back against the pillows. “What if I married Alysane’s son?”

“He’s  _ four _ .”

“I could wait until he was full grown.”

Jeyne pillows her head on her arm. “You’re terrified of getting married.”

Sansa turns on her side to face her. “I’m terrified of being  _ trapped _ in marriage to a man I hate.” 

Jeyne reaches over, stroking her hair. “If you want to run away, I’ll go with you.”

“What?”

“If you don’t want to get married. If you feel trapped. We can go away together. Ros is living rich in Pentos; we can stay with her. See the world. And never let a man rule our lives again.”

Sansa stares at her. She really means it. “Is that what you want?”

Jeyne shrugs. “I only want to be happy. Being with you makes me happy. You’re my family.”

Sansa drapes her arm over the other girl. “You’re mine, too.” She sighs. “Let’s just hope Lord Karstark is...agreeable.”

.

Lord Karstark and his sister are the last to arrive, save the Umbers. They greet the Starks politely, but there is little warmth in Harrion’s manner--something Sansa is quick to notice.

Alys, on the other hand, is very friendly, complimenting Sansa’s dress and asking if Jon is still as grumpy as she remembers him being. 

“He’s Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch now, so he has much to be grumpy about,” Theon tells her, and Alys laughs loud enough to rival the Mormonts. 

As soon as the Karstarks have been shown to their rooms, Catelyn pulls Sansa aside.

“Lord Karstark is not as friendly as his sister; you must make him like you.”

“Why  _ must _ I?” Sansa wants to know. “If he doesn’t like me, he doesn’t like me.”

“He could learn to like you. Marriage isn’t like your songs, Sansa, people don’t fall in love the moment they lay eyes on each other.”

“We killed his father; I don’t think he’ll ever learn to like me.”

.

Jeyne is as good as her word; she spends as much time as she can without suspicion talking to the Karstark servants and reports back to Sansa every night. 

“They say Lord Karstark didn’t want to come, but he knew it would be seen as a slight if he did not,” she informs her friend. “They also say that Lady Alys has been spending time with the wildlings, and Lord Karstark doesn’t approve.”

So Lord Karstark doesn’t like the Starks; that much Sansa could have guessed, but the information about Alys is new. 

“What do you think it means?”

Jeyne shrugs. “She’s always been wilful, and a little...different. And the Last Hearth is so far north that it’s little surprise she’s encountered them so often.”

“And Lord Karstark? What of his character? Does he have any bastards? Any mistresses?”

“I will find out,” Jeyne promises. “His squire likes me, I’m sure I can flirt it out of him.”

“You? Flirt?” Sansa asks skeptically.

“I  _ was _ trained in a brothel, you know,” Jeyne huffs. “I know a thing or two about men.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She strokes Sansa’s hair. “I’ll find out the truth, don’t you worry.” 

.

When the Umbers finally arrive, it is to great feasting and celebrating. Greatjon and his brother Mors are easily the loudest people in the great hall, roaring with laughter over every jest. Poor Roslin Frey looks impossibly small beside them, quiet and timid as a mouse. Sansa doesn’t understand how Roslin came to marry into such a big and boisterous family, but then she sees how soft Roslin’s eyes go whenever her husband speaks to her, and in turn, how gentle he is with her. They adore each other, even if they are as different as winter and summer.

Sansa finds herself feeling envious of their love.  _ That’s _ the kind of marriage she wants, not a political one where they learn to like each other. She wants it to be love, _ real  _ love. 

Robb had wanted the same, she recalls now. He hadn’t been content to wed a girl he’d never met. He’d married the woman he loved.

_ And in the end, he died for it. _

Despite her envy, she comes to like Roslin when they have a chance to speak. She likes to embroider and is fond of songs, and though she cannot sing, she is skilled at the lyre. She and Sansa sometimes sit in the solar for hours, going through song after song. 

“You’ve made me feel so welcome here, Lady Sansa,” Roslin murmurs one day. “I will never be able to repay your kindness.”

“You are my friend; you need never repay it,” Sansa assures her. “Truly, I’m happy you’re here.”

Roslin bows her head. “I am happy to be here. I was afraid when Jon asked for my hand, but he promised he would take care of me. As it turns out, he’s had to do very little.” She smiles. “I adore everyone I’ve met.”

“You love your husband?” Sansa asks in what she hopes is a casual manner.

“Very much, my lady.”

“Was it love at first sight?”

Roslin smiles. “No. He was the epitome of a Northman; big, hairy, loud. The kind of Northmen my father had warned me about, you see. I didn’t think anything of him. But he...respected me. More than my father or brothers. He was interested in what I had to say. Everyone at the Twins makes fun of me because I’m so quiet, but it’s because I’m so used to being talked over. You don’t get attention at home unless you’re loud. Jon  _ listened _ to me, and he made me feel  that the things I had to say were worth listening to.”

“That’s very romantic,” Sansa murmurs.

Roslin flushes. “I thought so. I realized I’d never meet someone who showed me that kind of attention again, and I didn’t want to. I only wanted him.”

“My mother wants me to marry soon,” Sansa confides. “I’m nervous my husband and I won’t...like each other.” 

“Such fears are common,” Roslin says sagely. “Most people never even meet until the wedding. Is your mother giving you a chance to meet them beforehand?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

She hesitates. “What do you think of Lord Karstark?”

“Lord Karstark?” Roslin considers. “I don’t know. He keeps to himself. Some might perceive that as rude, but perhaps he’s just shy. Bad at conversation.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa echoes. 

“Do you think you could be happy with him?”

“That’s just it--I don’t know enough about him to decide.”

“I will ask my husband about him,” Roslin decides. “Jon knows him well, I believe, and could give me insight as to his character.”

Sansa takes her hands. “ _ Thank you _ .”

“It is my pleasure. Now, shall we dress for dinner?”

Sansa smiles and nods, glad to have found a friend in Roslin Umber.


	52. JEYNE X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR ATTEMPTED RAPE IN THIS CHAPTER. It is only attempted and not carried through, but for those who are worried about reading it, it'll be obvious when it's about to happen. You can totally skip the rest of the chapter, what happens after the attempted rape will be addressed next chapter.

Jeyne is having a wonderful time.

Her attempts to ingratiate herself with the Karstark household have been a success, and not a little enjoyable. She likes Alys’s maid, Meera, and even more, she likes Lord Karstark’s squire, Wyl. He likes her, too; he spends all of his free time with her, walking around Winterfell and sneaking food from the kitchens. Sometimes he tries to sneak kisses, too, but Jeyne is always coy with him, always finding a way to put him off. 

It isn’t that she doesn’t want Wyl to kiss her, it’s only that she knows what comes after kisses. She may be Lady Poole, but House Poole is a minor house, and she has no father or brothers to defend her honor. She has to be careful.

This doesn’t mean that she doesn’t flirt with him. Men like to talk when they’re happy, and Wyl is no exception.

“How do you like your lord?” she asks him offhandedly. “I don’t know much about him.”

“He keeps to himself,” Wyl says. “I think his time as a prisoner of the Lannisters made him...stern. He argues with his sister a lot.”

“Because of the wildlings?”

He nods. “Aye. Not that I blame him; they’re a nasty sort, and we all know what they’ve done to us in the past.”

Jeyne stays silent. She, too, grew up with stories of the wildlings and the horrible things they do to unsuspecting, ill-behaved children. But there’s a worse threat beyond the Wall: the Army of the Dead. Does Wyl know about it? Does he believe in such things?

“Jeyne? You alright?”

“Yes,” she says, beaming up at him. “Only thinking about the wildlings.”

“Ah, don’t worry; I’ll keep you safe from them,” he reassures her.

_ I’ve killed more men than you, _ she thinks before pasting on a smile. “That makes me feel better.”

He stops, turning to her. “How about a kiss, then, for your brave hero?”

She looks around. No one is nearby. There are no distractions, no reasons for her to shy away.

“Or don’t you like me?” He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Jeyne knows that look.

“I’ve never kissed a man before,” she says in a soft voice, eyes downcast. It’s not untrue; the men who bought her in the brothel were more interested in fucking her than kissing her. What few kisses she did receive were open-mouthed, hungry things. 

“Oh, it’s easy!” He tilts her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Here. I’ll show you.”

And with no means of escape, Jeyne closes her eyes and lets Wyl kiss her. His lips are soft against hers, and after a few moments, she decides that she likes it. She kisses back, smiling against his lips.

“You’re a natural; I can tell,” he says when they pull apart at last. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. 

Wyl leans in again, planting one hand on the wall behind her.

“Oy!”

They look up, and see Theon marching angrily towards them. 

“Leave her alone.”

Wyl pushes back, glancing from Theon to Jeyne. “I don’t think she wants me to leave her alone.”

“It’s alright,” Jeyne tells Theon, stepping in front of Wyl. “He’s not hurting me.”

Theon eyes Wyl suspiciously. “Go on inside, Jeyne.”

“He’s not hurting me,” she repeats. It’s sweet of Theon to care. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry about me.”

He eyes them for a long moment before he turns and storms back inside. 

“Looks like I’ve got some competition,” Wyl jokes.

She turns to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Can’t you tell? He’s jealous.”

That flummoxes her. “Jealous? Of you?”

“Well, he’s not jealous of  _ you _ ,” he teases. “He looked fit to snap my neck.”

“Theon isn’t jealous,” she says, suddenly feeling warm. “He’s...just a friend. He wants to make sure I’m alright.”

“Men and women aren’t friends. If he’s nice to you, it means he wants you.”

The warm feeling spreads, leaving her flushing. “Theon doesn’t want me. We grew up together, he’s known me my whole life. Besides, he’s in the Kingsguard. Kingsguard can’t marry.”

“No, but they can do other things.”

A shiver runs down her spine. He’s not wrong; Meryn Trant was in the Kingsguard, and he was a frequent guest at Littlefinger’s brothel. Why shouldn’t members of the Kingsguard take a sweetheart? 

_ But Theon doesn’t want me _ . 

“I should get back,” she says. “Lady Sansa will be wanting a bath.”

“One more kiss before you go.”

She lets him, but when his lips meet hers, all she can think of is Theon. 

.

Jeyne is walking with Sansa and Roslin Umber when they hear shouting and cheering. When they come closer, they see that some of the men-at-arms and squires are on horse, including Wyl, and a few maids, including Alys Karstark and Serena Umber, are standing in a giggling cluster.

“Your turn, Serena!” Alys shouts, and Serena walks forward. 

Jeyne, Sansa, and Roslin watch as a Glover man rides towards Serena, hooves pounding. She holds out her hand; the Glover man reaches down and snatches whatever it is out of her hand as he passes. The assembly cheers as he raises his fist in the air, showing off a ribbon.

The exercise is repeated several more times, with different people; some of the men catch the ribbon, some miss, and some fall off their horse completely trying to do it. The three women migrate towards the small crowd, cheering whenever a ribbon is caught and laughing whenever it is missed. The crowd grows as more and more people come of the keep to look, and soon Jorelle and Aly Mormont are among those riding their horses, snatching ribbons from the maids.

“Would you do it?” Sansa asks Roslin.

“I don’t know,” Roslin says shyly. “It seems so dangerous.”

“No one’s been hurt yet,” Jeyne points out. And, feeling suddenly emboldened, she says, “Look, I’ll do it.”

And she strides forward, taking a ribbon from Serena Umber. 

“I’ll go!” Wyl calls, grinning at her. 

“Come on, Wyl!” the other lads shout as Wyl trots far enough back to get a good start. Jeyne holds out her hand, willing herself to breathe normally. Now that she’s here, facing down a galloping horse, she can’t help but feel that Roslin was right: this  _ does _ look dangerous. But it’s too late to back out now, so she licks her lips and waits. 

Wyl’s horse breaks into a full gallop, coming right towards her. She keeps her arm extended, the ribbon grasped loosely in her hand. Wyl has a look of concentration on his face, his brown eyes squinting, and she wonders if she’s made a terrible mistake.

The horse comes close, then moves past her, and Wyl reaches down and snatches the ribbon from her hand. She sighs in relief, shoulders sagging as he urges his horse to slow down. The spectators cheer, the men rushing to congratulate Wyl while the girls flock around Jeyne.

“Were you scared?” they ask.

“Yes,” she admits, laughing. “But I was in good hands.” 

When the game grows old, the party heads to the keep, where they pass around flagons of wine, telling tales and laughing. Jeyne drinks liberally, feeling happier than she has in a long time. It is perhaps for that reason that, when Wyl leans down and whispers in her ear, “Let’s go for a walk,” she finds herself agreeing. She takes Wyl’s hand, letting him lead her outside. It’s starting to get dark out; soon, everyone will gather in the great hall for dinner. But not yet. Now, Jeyne is drunk off of wine and life and a handsome boy’s smile.

He takes her to the godswood, long with shadows. The darkness gives them privacy, so even if someone else is in the godswood, they won’t be able to see the couple unless they’re standing close to them. 

Wyl backs her up against a tree, stroking her cheek. “You’re so beautiful, Jeyne.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “No. I’m pretty, but I’m not  _ beautiful _ .  _ Sansa _ is  _ beautiful _ .”

“I say you  _ are _ beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing her. His kiss is sweet and tastes like wine, and Jeyne kisses back with a soft sigh. She rests her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, giggling when his hold on her waist becomes tighter. When his tongue touches her lips she squeaks in surprise, but he pushes his tongue between her lips and she finds she doesn’t really mind it. 

_ Imagine a whore not knowing how to kiss. _ That thought makes her giggle again, and she wishes Ros was here so she could tell her. She misses Ros, and the thought sobers her a little.

“We should go back,” she says, pulling away from Wyl. 

He chases after her lips, kissing her again. She lets it go on for a long moment before she pulls away again. “Really, we should.”

“I’m not ready to go back yet,” he says firmly. 

“Well alright, but  _ I _ should be getting back, Lady Sansa will want me.” She starts to disentangle herself, but Wyl won’t let her go. 

“Lady Sansa is fine. Stay a bit longer,” he urges, kissing her neck. 

He still won’t let go of her, and Jeyne is starting to feel annoyed. “Wyl, please.”

He pulls back, staring at her. “Are you mad? After all your flirting and throwing yourself at me, you think I’m gonna believe you now? We both know you want it.”

Panic flares inside Jeyne. “I don’t want it. Wyl, let me go.”

But he doesn’t. He holds fast, his kisses becoming more and more like those kisses from men in the brothel. She turns her head away, pushing at him, but his grip on her is too firm. 

“Let  _ go _ !”

He reaches down, lifting up her skirt. Jeyne has an idea, the only way she knows to make him stop.

She lifts her leg just enough, her hand feeling down her thigh for the knife she always keeps there. Even here in Winterfell, even now, she still wears it, always ready should she need it. She isn’t going to hurt Wyl, of course, but she doesn’t know how else to make him stop. 

It all happens so fast. She pulls out the knife, ready to brandish it at him, but he moves right at that moment, and he sort of...falls onto her knife. They both look down at it in surprise, and then, blood bubbling at his mouth, he sinks to the ground, his eyes wide and surprised.

Everything goes quiet, and all Jeyne can hear is the roar of her blood in her veins. She stares at Wyl, desperately hoping he’ll get up and yell at her, but he doesn’t. He lies inert, his eyes open and unblinking. 

“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no, no.” She kneels down beside him, prodding at him, but still nothing. 

_ He’s dead. _

He can’t be dead. He  _ can’t _ be. She didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. Surely...surely that counts for something. Doesn’t it? Can’t she take it back? It’s not too late.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please, come back, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, come back.”

But Wyl lies there, motionless. A breeze rustles past them, blowing snowflakes in the air; one lands on his eye and he doesn’t blink, just lies there as it melts. 

Jeyne starts to quake. He’s dead. He’s really dead. She killed him.

_ He was going to rape me. _

_ You still murdered him. _

She sees her knife in his chest and reaches for it, prying it free. It’s covered in blood up to the hilt, and she wipes it on his shirt before tucking it back into her garter. She’s fairly certain no one knows she owns a knife, but nevertheless, she would hate for someone to see it and trace it back to her. 

She stands up, breathing hard. She knows what she  _ ought _ to do, which is to go to Lady Catelyn and tell her what happened. But then Lord Karstark will find out, and he’ll be angry, and they’ll punish her in some way. 

_ Why should I be punished when he was going to rape me? _

No, she won’t go to Lady Catelyn. She won’t go to anyone. She’ll go up to Sansa’s room and draw a bath and pretend nothing happened. In the morning they’ll find Wyl’s body and...and she’ll go from there.

She strides back to the keep, trying to act normal, but with every passing step, she loses her confidence. By the time she reaches Sansa’s chamber, she’s quaking again, her breath shallow. She slides to the floor as soon as she closes the door. She keeps seeing his eyes, the way they’d widened when he saw the knife, the way the life slipped out of him as he sank to the ground.  _ She _ did that,  _ she _ killed him. Only an hour ago he was alive, smiling at her and telling jokes, and now he lies cold and dead in the snow. 

She’s sobbing by the time Sansa enters the chamber some time later. 

“Jeyne? What is it?”

She shakes her head, rocking, but Sansa closes the door and kneels beside her. 

“Jeyne, tell me. Did Wyl hurt you?”

She sobs harder at that. 

“He did?”

She shakes her head.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

It takes Jeyne a long moment to muster the strength to speak. “He tried,” she says in a trembling voice. “I took out my knife to scare him, but...he moved, and...and he...and he...oh, Sansa!” She buries her face in Sansa’s shoulder.

Sansa wraps her arms around her. “He’s dead?”

Jeyne nods.

“Oh, Jeyne.” Sansa’s arms tighten. “It isn’t your fault.”

“It is! I killed him!”

“He was going to hurt you; you acted in self-defense,” Sansa insists. 

“Are you going to tell your mother?”

“No,” Sansa says, so suddenly and fiercely that Jeyne pulls back to look at her. “My mother won’t understand. She’d tell Lord Karstark, and then he’d be angry and want remuneration. No, you were right to do as you did. I won’t tell anyone. I swear it.”

Jeyne sobs in relief.

“Where is he?” Sansa asks, softer.

“In the godswood.”

“Good. It may be awhile before anyone finds him.”

“Everyone saw us leave together,” Jeyne points out.

“You can say that you were only together for a little while before you came up here to lie down.  You had a fair amount of wine earlier; I’ll say you’re sleeping it off.” She pushes Jeyne’s hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry. I swear to you, I won’t tell anyone, and if they ask, I’ll lie. You are my truest friend and I would never let anything happen to you.” She kisses Jeyne’s forehead. “Let’s get you into bed. I think there’s still some sweetsleep in the cupboard.”

Jeyne lets Sansa take care of her, undressing her and helping her into her nightdress. She tucks Jeyne under the covers and gives her a spoonful of sweetsleep to make her fall asleep and forget about Wyl.

“What if--”

“Hush now,” Sansa says softly. “It will be alright. I promise.”

Jeyne dearly hopes she’s right.


	53. THEON XIV

There’s a great commotion outside when Theon accompanies Rickon down to breakfast. Osha goes to investigate and comes back with a grave face.

“Lord Karstark’s squire was found dead in the godswood,” she says grimly.

“Dead?” Rickon asks, eyes wide. “How?”

“Stabbed in the heart.”

That’s ill news. Theon seems to recall the lad being an Ashwood or some such; one of the smaller houses pledged to Karhold, but a noble house nonetheless. And to leave the body in the godswood...that bodes ill as well. 

“Do they know who did it?”

She shakes her head. “No. The last anyone saw of him was drinking with the other lads in the afternoon.”

“Drunken brawl, perhaps?” Theon suggests.

“Perhaps, but who can say? No one’s owned up to it.”

Theon can’t see why anyone should  _ want _ to kill a lad from a smaller house; most like the boy drank too much, got into a fight with another lad, and the wine dulled their judgment. Of course the other lad hasn’t owned up to it; Lord Karstark will want punishment for whoever killed his squire. 

“What’s going on?” Sansa asks when she and Lady Catelyn come down, Jeyne trailing behind them. 

“Lord Karstark’s squire was found dead,” Rickon informs them. 

“Wyl?” Jeyne asks, eyes wide. 

Theon remembers then that Jeyne had been sweet on him, and as angry as he’d been about  _ that _ , he feels miserable on Jeyne’s behalf. 

“Aye, it was Wyl,” he says gently.

Her face crumples; Sansa catches her, rubbing her back as Jeyne starts to cry. “Do they know what happened?” she asks over her friend’s shoulder.

“Not yet. My guess is he and one of the other lads drank too much and got into a brawl.”

“This is most unfortunate,” Lady Catelyn laments. “Rickon, we should go and speak to Lord Karstark. Sansa, why don’t you take Jeyne to your room? Have the servants bring her breakfast.”

“Yes, Mother.” The redhead leads her friend out of the hall.

“Poor thing,” Catelyn murmurs. “Come along, Rickon, Arya.” 

“Can’t I go out and see the body?”

“Arya!”

.

Lord Karstark is upset, but like Theon, he agrees that it was likely a drunken brawl and not premeditated.

“There are so many squires and grooms and men-at-arms, and we all know how boys can be when they get together,” he sighs. 

“We will of course look into his death,” Catelyn offers, but Lord Karstark shakes his head.

“There’s no need, my lady, truly. He’d been drinking, and I have no doubt it was an accident. I don’t blame his killer for not coming forward.”

“You are very lenient, my lord,” Catelyn says with some surprise. 

“If war has taught me anything, Lady Stark, it’s that seeking justice for every slight will only make a man grow bitter. I adored that boy, don’t get me wrong, but what good will hunting down his killer do? I’m sure that boy has learned his lesson; the grief that weighs on him must be worse than any punishment I could mete.”

Catelyn bows her head. “As you say, my lord.”

“If you will pardon me, Your Grace, I would like to return to Karhold; I owe it to Wyl’s family to tell them the news myself.”

“Of course,” Rickon says, rising. “Let us know if there is anything we can do to help.” He, Lady Catelyn, and Arya take their leave, Theon following behind. 

.

The Karstarks leave that very day, taking Wyl’s body with them. 

Theon hears the lads talking about it when he takes his midday meal, clustered together in the great hall. It’s early afternoon, and the hall is mostly empty; everyone else has already taken their meal. Theon sits at a table near the boys, and though he doesn’t mean to, he ends up eavesdropping on their conversation. 

“...he was always a bit thick, truth be told.”

“You can’t say that about the dead.”

“Why not? It’s true. He probably picked a fight, knowing him.”

“What do you think he said to make someone want to kill him?”

“Who said he didn’t threaten to kill them first?”

“I bet it was over that girl.”

“What girl?”

“You know the one. Lady Sansa’s lady-in-waiting. He was sweet on her.”

“Aye, that’s one word for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He bet me five groats he could uncross her legs.”

“And did he?”

“Well he never came to collect his five groats, did he?”

Theon wants to turn around in anger at that, but something stops him.

Pieces of the puzzle slowly click into place. Jeyne. The bet. The body found in the godswood. The five groats gone uncollected. 

He gets up, his hunger forgotten.

He knows what happened to Wyl.

.

He finds them in the godswood, huddled under the heart tree and whispering. They look up at his approach, eyes wary.

He sits across from them, trying to find the words he wants to ask.

“Jeyne.”

She watches him, her face a stone mask.

“Did he hurt you?”

She lowers her eyes. “He tried.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Sansa says at once. “She didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“But you did,” he says, keeping his gaze on Jeyne.

Slowly, she nods.

“I just meant to scare him,” she murmurs. “He kept...grabbing me and...I kept telling him to stop, but he wouldn’t. I thought...if I showed him my knife, maybe he’d let me go. But then he moved and…” She shakes her head. “I never meant to hurt him, I swear it.”

“I know,” he says gently. Gods, why does it have to be this way? He knows it must have taken extraordinary effort for Jeyne to trust Wyl, to let him touch her and kiss her, and for him to be just like those men who’d raped her in King’s Landing...it makes him furious. She’ll never trust a man again. 

“It was my fault,” Sansa offers.

“Sansa…”

“It was,” she insists. “Mother wants me to marry Lord Karstark but I didn’t know what sort of man he was. Jeyne offered to find out from his servants. Servants know their masters better than anyone, and we thought...we thought that she could learn the truth of his character from Wyl. She never would have been alone with him if it wasn’t for me.”

Theon can’t help but admire her devotion to her friend. “It isn’t anyone’s fault but Wyl’s.”

“I killed him,” Jeyne says softly.

“He was a dead man as soon as he tried to rape you. Even if you hadn’t killed him, I would have.” 

Sansa regards him warily. “Are you going to tell my mother and Rickon?”

He shakes his head. “No. I won’t tell another soul.”

Both girls visibly relax. 

“Can I do anything?” he asks.

Jeyne shakes her head. “No. You’ve been very kind. Thank you.”

“Will you be alright?”

She shrugs. “More or less. It’s not the first man I’ve killed.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t.” 


	54. JAIME III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this may be the longest chapter I've written in a while?? 
> 
> I'm also, as you've probably noticed by now, TERRIBLE at writing action sequences, so please don't point it out because I am PAINFULLY AWARE of it.

Because of Jaime’s skill with a blade and also because the Watch is in desperate need of men, Jon Snow allows him to take his vows earlier than most recruits would. What few clothes he has are dyed black, and the Watch donates a few more items left behind by fallen brothers. 

“You know, black isn’t really my color,” he says distastefully.

“It is a shock, seeing a golden lion of Lannister wearing the black of the Night’s Watch,” Jon admits. “But I think the men prefer seeing you this way.”

It’s true that the men have been a bit less hostile since he swore his oath. They’re all equals up here, all forced to live a cold and miserable life. He doesn’t doubt that many of them gloat at seeing the proud son of Tywin Lannister among their ranks, but the gloating melts into acceptance soon enough. 

Jon Snow comes knocking one night, bearing two horns of ale. He is perhaps the closest thing to a friend that Jaime has here, strange as that sounds.

“What do you think our fathers would say if they saw us like this?” he asks Jon as they sit by the fire and drink. 

“They’d hate it,” Jon says bluntly. 

“That they would.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, watching the flames.

“I have a confession to make,” Jon says at last. “I didn’t just let you take the vows early because you’re a good fighter, although that’s a big part of it. I also wanted you to come beyond the Wall with me, and only sworn men of the Night’s Watch are allowed to go beyond the Wall.”

Jaime raises his eyebrows. “Go beyond the Wall  _ with _ you? Surely as the Lord Commander, your place is here?”

“Some might argue that,” Jon agrees. “There’s a wildling village on Storrold’s Point. The last of the wildlings are there, all those that didn’t come south when I made a pact with Mance Rayder. The Army of the Dead is coming for them, and I cannot in good conscience leave them exposed. I’ve seen the Army of the Dead; I’ve fought them. I have to go and convince these people to evacuate.”

“And you want me to come with you?”

He nods. “Aye. You’re a good fighter. And I want you to see these creatures for yourself. I want you to understand what we’re up against.”

Jaime has to admit to curiosity about the mythical White Walkers that everyone here seems to believe in. And Tormund is the only wildling he’s encountered thus far; he’d be interested to see a wildling settlement, and especially to go beyond the Wall. 

“When do we leave?”

“First light.”

Jaime snorts. “I thank you for the ample time to prepare.”

“It is a bit of a last minute decision,” Jon admits. “But there’s no time to waste. So...will you come?”

Jaime looks at him. “You are the Lord Commander. You command, I do.”

“It will be dangerous.”

“I know.”

“You may not survive.”

“That’s fine with me.”

Jon nods. “Very well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning.” 

Jon gets up, ready to go, and then turns back. “Oh, I nearly forgot; a raven came for you.”

“For me?” Jaime asks, perplexed. Who does he know who’d want to send him a raven?

“It had an unmarked seal.” Jon withdraws a scroll and hands it to Jaime. 

“What’s the saying? Dark wings, dark words?” Jaime asks, taking it.

“I pray for your sake it is not.” Jon takes his leave, and Jaime is left with the mysterious scroll. He cracks open the seal and unfurls the scroll, heart stopping when he sees his sister’s handwriting.

_ My beloved Jaime, _

_ Yes, it’s me. I’m still alive, and so is Tommen. We escaped King’s Landing before its destruction and are safely together in Pentos. Myrcella has joined us, and we are hopeful that you will, too. I know you are in the Night’s Watch, but you’ve always been resourceful; I’m sure you can find a way to get to us. I miss you. Our children miss you. Come to Pentos, and let us be the family we’ve always wanted to be. No crowns, no titles, no one to tell us that our love is wrong. We can be man and wife. _

_ I know you will keep our secret. Come to me. Come to our family. I love you, I love you, I love you. Come at once.  _

_ Cersei _

Jaime stares at the letter for a long time. What he’s reading...can’t be real. 

And yet…

It’s just like his sister, to fake her own death rather than suffer the humiliation of conceding defeat. She will always feel like she has the upper hand now, will always feel as if she won the war. She’s alive, Tommen is alive, and Stannis will never know.

For the first time since Whispering Wood, he’s filled with hope.  _ She’s alive. _ He can see her again, can bury his hands in her golden hair, can kiss her and touch her and fuck her. All he has to do is find a way out of here.

They leave on the morrow. It will have to wait until they return to Castle Black. He could ask to transfer to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, make some excuse about running an errand for the Lord Commander and catch a ship to Pentos. He can be with her again, her and their children.

He tucks the letter into his breast pocket. Soon, he’ll see her again. 

.

In the morning, Jaime wears his warmest clothes and takes a hot breakfast of porridge before heading out to the yard. He barely slept the night before, thinking of his sweet sister waiting for him, but the excitement of passing beyond the Wall keeps him awake. 

The journey takes a few days; Jaime, Jon, Tormund, Edd, and a small collection of men ride to the coast of the Shivering Sea, where they take ships from Eastwatch to the settlement of Hardhome.

The wildlings gather along the shore, watching with hard eyes as the men of the Night’s Watch sail towards them. When they dock, the wildlings watch impassively, silent and judgmental.

“You trust me, Jon Snow?” Tormund murmurs to the Lord Commander.

“Does that make me a fool?”

“We’re fools together now.”

Together, the men walk forward. Though some of the wildlings whistle and jeer, they all part for the Night’s Watch, unwilling to get close. Tormund leads them up a slope, where a wildling covered in human bones greets them.

“Lord of Bones. Been a long time.”

“Last time I saw you, the little crow was your prisoner,” the Lord of Bones accuses. “The other way around now. What happened?”

“We should gather the elders,” Tormund says, ignoring the question.  “Find somewhere quiet to talk.”

“You don’t give the orders here,” the Lord of Bones sneers.

“I’m not giving an order.”

The Lord of Bones considers him. “Why aren’t you in chains?”

Jon speaks up. “He’s not my prisoner.” 

“No? What is he?”

“We’re allies.”

“You fucking traitor.”

Jaime can feel the resentment of the crowd around him, the restlessness stirring them. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, ready to draw it should the need arise. 

“You fight for the crows now?”

“I don’t fight for the crows,” Tormund says calmly.

“We’re not here to fight, we’re here to talk,” Jon adds.

“Is that right? You and the pretty crow do a lot of talking, Tormund?” The Lord of Bones starts nudging Tormund’s chest with his staff. “And when you’re done talking, do you get down on your knees and suck his cock?” He shoves his staff at Tormund, who snatches it out of his hands and whirls it around, knocking it into its former owner. The Lord of Bones falls, and Tormund beats him savagely with the staff. The other wildlings watch but do nothing, curious to see the outcome.

When the Lord of Bones is still and silent, Tormund throws down the staff and looks at the wildlings gathered around him. “Gather the elders and let’s talk.” He strides forward, and once again the wildlings hastily part, clearing the way for him and the Night’s Watch.

Jaime has to admit; he likes Tormund’s style.

.

They gather in a large hut that Jaime takes to be  their meeting place. It’s a crude structure, built mostly of wood and mud; there is an opening in the roof for the hearth, and the floor is little more than dirt. For once in his life, Jaime feels sorry for the wildlings. They  _ live _ like this.

When all of the elders have gathered, Jon steps forward. “My name’s Jon Snow. I’m Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. We’re not friends. We’ve never been friends. We won’t become friends today. This isn’t about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a seven hundred foot wall between you and what’s out there.”

“You built that wall to keep us out,” one of the wildlings points out. “Since when do the crows give two shits if we live?”

“In normal times, we wouldn’t,” Jon concedes. “But these aren’t normal times. The White Walkers don’t care if a man’s free folk or crow. We’re all the same to them, meat for their army. But together, we can beat them.”

“Beat the White Walkers?” a wildling woman asks with some amusement. “Good luck with that. Run from them, maybe.”

Jon takes off his satchel and the wildlings tense up, expecting an attack. He comes forward, holding out the satchel to the woman. “It’s not a trick,” he assures her. “It’s a gift for those who join us.”

She reaches inside, pulling out what looks to be an obsidian blade.

“Dragonglass,” Jon continues. “A man of the Night’s Watch used one of these daggers to kill a Walker.”

“You saw this?”

“No,” he admits. “But I trust the man.”

“There are old stories about dragonglass,” the woman says, looking at the dagger in her hand.

“There are old stories about ice spiders as big as hounds,” a man counters. 

The woman raises her eyebrow. “And with the things we’ve seen, you don’t believe them?”

“Come with me and I’ll share these weapons,” Jon promises. 

“Come with you where?”

“There are good lands south of the Wall. The Night’s Watch will let you through the tunnel and allow your people to farm those lands.”

The wildlings murmur at this, sharing looks.

“Mance Rayder is in those lands now,” Jon tells them. “He never wanted a war with the Night’s Watch. He wanted a new life for his people. For you. We’re prepared to give you that new life.”

“If?” the woman presses.

“If you swear you’ll join us when the real war begins.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, considering his offer. 

Finally, the woman speaks up. “I lost my father, my uncle, and two brothers fighting the damn crows.”

“I’m not asking you to forget your dead,” Jon says, his patience audibly wearing thin. “I’ll never forget mine. I lost fifty brothers the night Mance attacked the Wall. But I’m asking you to think about your children now. They’ll never have children of their own if we don’t ban together. The Long Night is coming, and the dead come with it. No clan can stop them. The free folk can’t stop them. The  _ Night’s Watch _ can’t stop them, and all the southern kings can’t stop them! Only together, all of us, and even then it may not be enough. But at least we’ll give the fuckers a fight.” 

“You vouch for this man, Tormund?” the woman asks. 

Tormund puts his hands on his hips, looking at Jon. “He’s prettier than both my daughters, but he knows how to fight. He’s young, but he knows how to lead. He didn’t have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us...and we need him.”

“My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow,” one of the men says.

“So would mine, but fuck ‘em, they’re dead.” The woman comes forward. “I’ll never trust a man in black.” She moves to Tormund. “But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is the way, we’re with you.”

Tormund looks at all of them. “This is the way.”

“I’m with Tormund,” another of the elders pipes up. “If we stay here, we’re dead men. At least with King Crow, there’s a chance.”

The lone giant in the room, a great, terrifying creature that Jaime has been trying not to stare at (“They’re shy,” Tormund had explained to him), turns to them now and rumbles, “Tormund.”

“Keep that new life you want to give us,” one of the wildlings says. “And keep your glass, King Crow. As soon as you get on his ships, they’re gonna slit your throats and dump your bodies to the bottom of the Shivering Sea.” He points to Jon. “That’s our enemy. That has always been our enemy.” He walks out of the hut, a considerable number of wildlings following him.

The woman looks after him in disgust. “I fucking hate Thenns.”

.

Most of the elders start rounding up the other villagers, packing their meager belongings and busting them down to the docks. Boats row out from the ships, taking children first; a few mothers and elderly people go with them, begrudgingly accepting the help of the Night’s Watch as they load into the boats. 

Many of the wildlings stay firmly on shore, watching the proceedings with hard eyes. Jaime can’t blame them; if the relationship between wildlings and men of the Night’s Watch is as virulent as they say, they’re probably wise not to trust the men in black. 

Jaime’s helping a wizened old man with milky blue eyes into a boat when the village dogs start barking. He assumes it’s some childish commotion, but the barking only gets louder and more frantic. Jaime looks towards where the dogs are barking and sees white, snowy winds rising over the mountaintop, rolling slowly but steadily towards the village.

“Close the gates!” someone shouts. 

The village gates close, abandoning hundreds of screaming wildlings to the white winds swirling down around them. They bang against the door, begging to be let in, but the guards bolt the gate shut. It’s horrible, listening to their screams of fright and agony.

“Why are they shutting them out?” he asks Jon, but the Lord Commander only watches the gate with a grim expression.

Suddenly the screaming and pushing against the gate stops. It’s as if all the wildlings disappeared.

“What--” Jaime starts to ask, but the pushing and screaming resumes, only it’s...different. The screaming no longer sounds desperate, but angry, the pushing even more so. Hands and knives burst through the gate, and the wildlings inside the village ready their own weapons. As new pieces of the gate splinter open, revealing dark, mottled faces, the wildlings fire arrows, driving back the intruders. 

The unarmed wildlings don’t wait for the boats; many of them run straight into the water, swimming towards the ships. Jon roars for everyone to keep in line and wait for the boats, but it’s useless; the wildlings are panicking, too afraid of the enemy that is literally at their gates.

The dark, mottled things start climbing the gate, springing over the side and onto the roofs. Jaime’s mouth falls open, because what he sees is…

_ Death _ .

The snarling creatures are human skeletons, with only scraps of rotten flesh hanging from their bones. They move with more agility than any human, jumping and scampering like squirrels. So this is the Army of the Dead, then, what everyone at Castle Black warned him about. Jon was right; he’d needed to see them to believe.

And now that he believes, he is more frightened than he thinks he’s ever been in his life.

Jon, Tormund, and the wildling woman, Karsi, make a valiant effort to load people in the boats and send them to the ships.

“Lannister, what are you waiting for!” Jon bellows, and Jaime stumbles to help, swinging people into the boats and keeping the others at bay. He keeps glancing at the gate, watching the dead dig their way under the gate, try to squeeze into the narrow openings.

“Lord Commander!” one of the brothers, Duncan, shouts.

“Get them to the ship and come back for me!” Jon bellows.

“But you’ll never make--”

“NOW!” 

Jaime gets separated from him by the crowd, but over the cries of the people rushing to the boats, he hears the call of, “Night’s Watch, with me!”

Jaime sees the brothers in black push towards the gate, swords out, and he follows their example, unsheathing his blade and making for the gate. If they can fight off the Army of the Dead, they can buy time for the wildlings making for the ships. But whether the Night’s Watch themselves will make it to the ships...well. Best not think about that now. 

The dead are pouring into the village now, and Jaime swings his sword as the first corpse comes running. They’re so different from any other enemy he’s ever faced; they move quickly, uninhibited by armor or by any fear of being cut down. When you’ve died once, he imagines, you aren’t afraid of doing it again.

Like some mythological creature, they seem to multiply; for every wight that Jaime cuts down, two more spring up in its place. They’re making quick work of the gate now, widening the gaps and hurtling through them. They show no fear, no hesitation, only determination. 

It’s a real fight, one that fills Jaime with more adrenaline than any fight he’s ever fought before.  _ This _ is the fight he’s been training for all his life. Every other battle was just practice, a way for him to stay sharp. 

His sword whirls and arcs, coming down hard and slicing in a line. The skeletons shatter at his blade’s touch, their bones scattering across the ground. It doesn’t stop them from moving, seeking a way to destroy every living being they come across. Some of the brothers and wildlings fighting nearby fall prey to the dead, their agonized shouts filling the air as the skeletons use their fingers and teeth to tear the life from them.

_ Gods be good, why didn’t Stannis let me die? _

Jon Snow goes still, and when Jaime looks in the direction Jon is staring, he feels a shiver run down his spine. Sitting on top of the mountain are riders on horses, silent sentinels watching the battle. 

“The dragonglass,” Jon realizes. He and the Thenn move towards the hut, searching for their only hope. 

Jaime keeps his blade moving, pushing back the dead and cutting down those who get too close. Cutting them in half is the most effective way; they still move, but they’re no real threat when they’re only half a body, using their arms to crawl feebly across the ground. 

The giant from before bursts out of the hut, which Jaime now sees is on fire. Wights leap onto his back and run at him, but he shakes them off as a dog would a fly, flinging their bodies into walls and stomping on them as easily as if they were beetles. 

Smoke rises from the burning hut, mixing with the snow and ice blowing about in the wind. It makes it hard to see, but that’s little matter to Jaime. His master-at-arms used to make him fight blindfolded.

“You won’t always be able to see an enemy sneaking up on you,” he’d said. “You must learn to hear them. Smell them.  _ Feel _ them coming at you.”

Jaime taps into that now, attuning all his senses. He can hear the clatter of moving bones, can hear the thud of footsteps coming towards him. He swings his sword, catching wight after wight in the chest and belly, cutting them open and sending them scattering across the ground. 

It isn’t enough.

More wights pour down from the mountain, stumbling and running past the riders. They throw themselves over the cliff face, unheeding of how they land. Though they all land in a jumbled heap, many of them leap up, shaking their bones into place before running towards the living. 

“Jaime!” comes a voice, and when he looks, he sees Jon and Edd sprinting for the docks. “Come on!”

He doesn’t need to be told twice; he makes for the docks, running as fast as his legs will carry him. Tormund and the giant join them, putting on a fresh spurt of speed when the wights knock over the village walls completely. 

Jaime, Jon, Edd, and Tormund leap into the last remaining boat, pushing away from the docks and rowing out into the water. The giant remains onshore, swinging a great timber log with its end lit on fire. Jaime fears that the giant will fall prey to the dead, but he drops the log and strides into the water. A few wights leap onto his back, but he pulls them off easily, wading into the water. 

“Let’s go!” Jon shouts, and they pull out the rows, heading for the ships.

From the boat, Jaime watches in grim silence as the wights defeat what’s left of the living. Brothers of the Night’s Watch and wildlings who couldn’t make it to the boats slowly, painfully succumb to the Army of the Dead, no match for the undead ferocity of their opponents. 

And then Jaime sees something truly horrifying.

A man, or something that looks like a man, strides out onto the dock. His clothes look like a normal man’s, but his head and hands are white as ice, and even from this distance, Jaime can see his piercing blue eyes. They’re an unearthly blue, an inhuman blue, and Jaime somehow knows that this is a White Walker.

The White Walker looks at them, watching their retreat across the bay. He turns, looking at the dead behind him. The battle is over, and now they stand along the shore, watching the boat. None of them move into the water, but that doesn’t mean they won’t.

And then the White Walker does something awful.

He raises his arms, slowly...and slowly, the corpses littering the ground move. They get to their feet, joining the ranks of the undead, turning ice-blue eyes to the ships. They don’t move for the boat, but they don’t have to: the message has been received. Every man, woman, and child who dies can and will be made undead by the White Walkers. 

The living don’t stand a chance.

  
  



	55. SANSA XI

Once the Karstarks leave, little is said about Wyl. Everyone seems to agree that the lads drank too much and got overexcited, and Wyl’s death was little more than an accident. No one is questioned or punished. Life simply goes on.

Sansa is glad. She’s still angry at Wyl’s specter, and angrier still at herself. Jeyne had only flirted with him to help Sansa, and if she hadn’t been trying to help, if Sansa wasn’t so worried about Harrion Karstark, Jeyne would never have risked Wyl’s abuse. She would never have had to kill him, wouldn’t lie awake at night muffling her sobs in her pillow. 

She’s getting better, but only just. Everyone has thankfully attributed her sadness to Wyl’s passing, assuming she is a lovestruck girl who is too easily moved. Maester Luwin brews her a tea to help her sleep, and Lady Catelyn insists that she go easy on herself.

“It makes me feel better when I have things to do,” Jeyne counters, and throws herself into whatever chores she can find. 

But as the visitors empty out of Winterfell, Jeyne finds herself with less and less to do. With no lords and ladies and their retinues to attend, it becomes increasingly hard to find ways to occupy herself. 

Sansa says as much to her mother, knowing that Lady Catelyn will find something for Jeyne to do. She does not expect, however, her mother to say what she does next.

“Perhaps a trip to the Vale would improve her spirits.”

Sansa stares at her. “The Vale?” 

“As it seems inappropriate to pursue a match between you and Lord Karstark at the moment, we must look at our other options. Besides, now that the war is won, I feel I should pay a visit to your cousin. I am still his regent, after all.”

Sansa has to admit to some excitement at the prospect of visiting the Vale. She’s never been, but Arya’s descriptions of it make her wish she had. She doesn’t want to pack up and move south, but visiting the Vale isn’t a guarantee of anything. And her mother’s right; a trip to the Vale  _ would _ improve Jeyne’s spirits. It would be a new place with new people, a way to forget about...well. A way to forget.

Which is how she finds herself packing her things side by side with Jeyne. 

“I’ve always wanted to see the Vale,” Jeyne admits. “Especially the Eyrie.”

“Mother says we won’t be able to go to the Eyrie; it’s too dangerous with all the ice and snow,” Sansa tells her. “But she said we’ll probably be able to see it from a distance, if the clouds are kind.”

“It might not be a bad idea, you marrying your cousin,” Jeyne suggests. “The Vale is one of the most prosperous kingdoms, and one of the most peaceful. It’s also the safest; no one is foolish enough to attack it, because even if they somehow got through the Bloody Gate, the Eyrie itself is impregnable. Unless you have a dragon, that is.”

“Well, I highly doubt Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons are going to come for the Eyrie anytime soon,” Sansa snorts. But Jeyne makes a good point. No surprise attacks in the Eyrie, and if anyone does turn traitor, there’s always the Moon Door. 

Marrying her cousin also has the advantage of being able to wait a few years until he’s old enough. She could stay in Winterfell in the meantime, stay with her family.

Even marrying Robin wouldn’t be so bad; though she’s never met him, he’s younger than her. More malleable. He wouldn’t try to control her the way Joffrey and Ramsay wanted to. He’d probably be kind to her, knowing that they’re family.

And the Vale isn’t  _ so _ far from Winterfell. The journey is about two weeks, on horse or by ship to White Harbor. Less than that, if she rode hard enough. 

Her spirits lifted, she decides that she’s going to have a good time in the Vale.

.

Sansa, Jeyne, and Catelyn ride out from Winterfell with Grey Wind and twenty men. Sansa knows her mother wanted to bring Brienne but hadn’t been able to justify depriving the king of both his Kingsguard. She had settled for bringing one of the wolves, who, in Sansa’s opinion, is as good as any Kingsguard, if not better.

Rickon and Arya are left to their own devices, and though they have Maester Luwin to counsel them, Sansa knows that they may well return to find Winterfell in shambles. Rickon has become much more responsible in the past few months, but he’s still a wild child, and he and Arya bring out the worst in each other. Couple that with Shaggydog and Nymeria, and they’re just asking for trouble.

That’s how Sansa knows that this marriage is important to her mother; she wouldn’t leave Rickon and Arya alone if it wasn’t. 

“Who would you have me marry?” Sansa asks her mother as they ride south.

“Your cousin seems the obvious choice,” Lady Catelyn admits. “As the Lord of the Vale, he would be the most powerful match. His youth and blood also speak in his favor; he’s hardly likely to be a domineering husband. Still, there are many drawbacks to marrying Robin. He’s sickly and may not survive to adulthood. He may lack the wisdom required to rule the Vale. There are many who might see a marriage between the two of you as an abuse of my power. But every match will have its advantages and disadvantages.”

“What do you know of Harrold Hardyng?”

“Very little. He is Robin’s only heir, so if Robin does die, Harrold will be Lord of the Vale. I know he is Lady Waynwood’s ward, and she is one of the most sensible people I have ever met, a quality I hope extends to those in her charge.”

“But you don’t know what sort of person he is?”

“I do not. Lord Royce will speak candidly, I am sure.”

“And Lord Royce’s son? Ser Andar?”

“I have met him before, though I confess I paid little attention at the time. He is about six- or seven-and-twenty, and comely. He spoke honorably.”

Once, Sansa would have found six-and-twenty to be old; now, she doesn’t mind so much. As long as he’s kind. That’s all that matters. She can bear almost anything if he’s kind.

.

The journey to the Vale is not unpleasant; it gets warmer the further south they ride, the snows thinning and giving way to green again. Not that there’s much of it, but there’s certainly more than there is at Winterfell. 

As they leave the Neck, the Kingsroad runs along the Green Fork, and before long, they’re passing the Trident. They stay the night at the Crossroads Inn, and with a lurch, Sansa remembers that day three years ago, when Joffrey had shown his true nature. 

Cersei had shown her true nature too, but it would be awhile yet before Sansa learned not to trust the queen.

In the morning, they leave the Kingsroad and head east for the Vale. As soon as the high stone mountains rise up over the horizon, one of the men spies riders in the distance. 

“Clansmen?” Catelyn asks sharply.

“I don’t think so, my lady; the mountain clans aren’t known for riding horses.”

As they draw nearer, they see that the riders are not the clansmen, but are in fact men bearing bronze banners with black studs: the banners of House Royce of Runestone.

“Lord Royce!” Catelyn cries, urging her mount forward. Sansa follows close behind, seeing the Lord of Runestone in his bronze armor.

“Lady Stark!” he greets. “I had hoped we would meet you on the road. The mountain clans are bold.”

“I know all too well,” she says grimly. “We are most grateful for your escort.”

Lord Royce and his men lead the northerners into the Vale, taking them along the High Road. 

“Lord Arryn will be glad to see you, my lady.”

“How is my nephew?” Catelyn asks. “I have not heard from him since I left.”

“Dark wings, dark words,” Lord Royce intones. “We thought it best not to disturb you if nothing was amiss. He’s growing into a fine young man...though I fear his skill with a blade leaves...something to be desired.”

“Let us pray the day never comes when he needs it,” Catelyn says darkly. 

“As you say, my lady.”

Lord Royce reins back and draws even with Sansa. “Lady Sansa, I do not believe you’ve met my son, Ser Andar.”

“I have not had the pleasure, no.”

A man in his twenties reins up beside her, and Lord Royce nods at him. “Lady Sansa, my son, Ser Andar.”

Though they are on horseback, Ser Andar takes Sansa’s hand and leans over, kissing it. “An honor, Lady Sansa.”

“The honor is all mine.” She glances back at Jeyne, who’s smiling. Ser Andar is handsome; tall and well-built, he has dark hair and grey eyes. He is also clean-shaven, which Sansa likes; too many men hide their faces behind beards. Ser Andar has no need to hide his face; with his high cheekbones and strong jaw, he is a comely man.

Satisfied with the introduction, Lord Royce rides ahead to rejoin Catelyn, who gives her daughter a sly look before entering into conversation with the Lord of Runestone. This leaves Sansa riding alongside Ser Andar. 

“Is this your first time in the Vale, my lady?”

“It is; I’ve never even met my cousin. Well, I did once,” she amends. “But he was only a baby, so it will feel like meeting him for the first time.” She glances at her mother and then lowers her voice. “My sister Arya tells me he’s spoiled.”

Ser Andar’s eyes twinkle. “There are some who might say that.”

“Are you one of them?”

“Never in polite company.”

She laughs. “So it’s true, then?”

“In all fairness, Lord Robin lived a sheltered life; I understand that Lady Arryn had her share of loss before Robin, and kept the boy close lest she suffer another loss. He was rarely around other children. Even at court, they say he lived in her lap. He may be spoiled, but he’s gotten much better since your lady mother stepped in as regent. I believe that in time, he will be a just ruler.”

In time. But how long will that take?  _ Will it happen before we’re to wed, if we do at all? _

.

It’s several days’ ride to the Bloody Gate, so they have to make camp along the road. The Vale men are the picture of courtesy, going to all lengths to ensure that the women are comfortable. The chivalry of the Knights of the Vale is the stuff of legends, and Sansa can see why; they are the very souls of honor and courtesy. 

“It is a pity you did not sail from White Harbor; we could have hosted you at Runestone,” Lord Royce laments. 

“We feared the winter seas might be too rough. Besides, Sansa has never been to the Vale, and I wanted her to see the Bloody Gate.”

“It is a wonder to behold,” Lord Royce agrees. “Don’t worry, Lady Sansa; as soon as we reach the Bloody Gate, you shall have a feather bed and food cooked in kitchens again.”

Sansa can hardly wait; as chivalrous as the Royce men are, there’s no substitute for a feather bed, or for a hot bath and food that isn’t freshly caught deer, or worse, the hard jerky the men keep in their saddlebags. 

At least the company is pleasant. The men are all courteous and happy to answer Sansa’s questions about the Vale, but none more so than Ser Andar.

“I wish I could visit the Eyrie,” she laments while they’re riding. “Everyone speaks highly of it.”

“In truth, I think it is better to look upon than to visit,” he says. “It is an impressive castle, to be sure, but the climb is steep and unpleasant, and it’s either that or let them lift you in a basket full of turnips. And the castle itself is high and cold, full of wind from all its open windows. Worst of all is the Moon Door, from which many a man has met his end. It is a shame we cannot host you at Runestone; it is not nearly as cold and severe as the Eyrie.”

“I should like to see Runestone,” she admits. “And all the Vale. But I fear we only have time to visit my cousin; my mother does not like to leave my brother alone.”

“But how is she to judge whether I am an acceptable suitor?”

Sansa’s cheeks flush, and Ser Andar laughs. 

“Your mother and my father are...unsubtle, shall we say. My father has been pressing my suit for your hand for some time now, and as your brother is too young to wed and you are his heir, well...we suspected this was more than a mere social visit.” When she continues to blush, he adds, “Come now, Lady Sansa; there is no shame in it. If it is any consolation, nearly every noble house in the Vale has invited me to dine so that I might meet their daughters and fall hopelessly in love with one of them. Runestone is not the Eyrie, but it is nothing to scoff at.”

“Do  _ you _ want to marry me?” she asks, equal parts amazed and admiring at how forthright he’s being. 

“From what I know of you, yes,” he admits. “But I would not be offended if you chose another, and I hope that no matter your decision, we may be friends.”

“I would be glad to have you as a friend, Ser Andar,” she says, smiling. 

“Good. Now, who else is pressing their suit? Perhaps I can weigh in on the matter.”

“I would be grateful for your counsel. My mother wants me to marry my cousin Robin, and failing that, Harrold Hardyng.”

Andar shakes his head. “Neither of them would make you happy, I’m afraid.”

Sansa feels her heart sink. “Truly?”

“Truly. You would be Lady of the Vale, true enough, but you would find little comfort in either of them. Lord Robin is not as spoiled as he once was, it’s true, but he is sickly and prone to fits. You would be half a wife and half a nurse. That is assuming, of course, he lives to manhood, and he may not.”

“And Harrold Hardyng?”

“A rogue. He has one bastard child already, and word has it that another is on the way--by a different woman. He’s only just turned twenty; imagine how many more bastards he will sire in the years to come, wife or no.”

Sansa bites her lip. Ser Andar speaks truly; a man like that is not like to give up whoring and siring bastards. She’s seen firsthand what a bastard’s presence did to her mother, and while she may be able to overlook bastards born before the marriage, she knows she would never be able to forgive her husband for any bastards born after it. 

“Well then,” she says with a lightness she doesn’t feel, “perhaps I’ll just have to settle for you after all, Ser Andar.”

His face colors. “I did not mean to--”

“I know. I appreciate your honesty,” she assures him. “I will, of course, have to reserve judgment until I’ve met and measured them myself, but I thank you for the candor with which you speak. It is a trait that is getting harder and harder to find these days.”

“I will never lie to you, Lady Sansa,” he says gravely. “I swear to you. Even if I wanted to, I have not the stomach for it.”

Sansa wants to believe him...but she knows better than to trust too easily.

.

The Bloody Gate is as imposing as everyone promised, even if not in the way that Sansa imagined. Two high cliffs rise up on either side of the road, and at their tops stand men with arrows nocked. At the end stands a high stone tower; a small, narrow gate sits at the bottom, and above it are two levels of men with swords and arrows.

“Who would pass the Bloody Gate?” a sentry calls down to them.

“Lord Yohn Royce, the Regent of the Vale, and Lady Catelyn Stark, here to see her nephew Lord Arryn.”

The man at the gate bows his head. “Open the gate,” he calls, and with a loud, metallic clanging, the gate opens for them. They fall into single file so as to fit through the gate. When Sansa emerges on the other side, her mouth falls open.

Some distance ahead of her looms a mountain onto which a castle has been built--or rather, a series of castles, each one connected by a thin strip of causeway. At the top is a great castle, smaller than Winterfell or the Red Keep, but impressive nonetheless. Though clouds hang low over its spires, Sansa can see why it is so revered.

“The Eyrie,” Ser Andar says, nodding as he falls in beside her. “An impregnable fortress. Even if an enemy were to overcome the Bloody Gate, they’d have the Gates of the Moon to contend with, and then they’d have to make their way all the way up the Giant’s Lance on little more than a goat trail. Assuming they made it past all the waycastles, they’d have to abandon their horses and climb up a steep path to get into the Eyrie itself. As it is, you’ll be perfectly safe at the Gates of the Moon, my lady. It’s not as grand as the Eyrie, but it has been good enough for the Arryns every winter.”

“As long as it has hot water for a bath, it shall suit me perfectly,” Sansa assures him.

He moves ahead to speak with his father, and Jeyne rides up to take his place. She doesn’t have to say anything, just gives Sansa an expectant look.

“I like him,” Sansa admits softly. She’s hardly had a chance to talk to Jeyne in private; they share a tent with her mother, and she rides beside Ser Andar more often than not. Even when they make camp, they are urged to never stray far lest they be taken by the hill tribes. As much as she enjoys Ser Andar’s company, she’ll be glad of the chance to speak openly with Jeyne once they’re in a room of their own. “I think I might like him better than Robin or Harrold Hardyng.”

“Harry the Heir, I heard the men call him.” Jeyne shakes her head. “He sounds like a rogue. Did you know he has one bastard child and another on the way?”

“Ser Andar told me. I wonder if he will have any respect for a lady wife.”

“And your cousin? Lord Robin?”

“A sickly, spoiled child, from what I’ve heard.”

“At least he’s not like to sire any bastards,” Jeyne offers. “There again, I doubt he’ll be like to sire any children at all.”

“I will have to meet them before I make a decision,” Sansa says. “But neither of them seem like promising candidates.”

“But Ser Andar does,” Jeyne says slyly.

Sansa glances at the knight, who’s smiling at something his father is saying.

“Yes. He does.”

.

When they finally reach the Gates of the Moon, the real moon is high in the sky, full and bright. None of them had seen the sense in making camp when their destination was in sight, and Sansa, for one, is glad; she’s so looking forward to a hot bath and feather bed. 

Lord Nestor Royce and his daughter, Myranda, greet them, both still dressed for the day. 

“We’ve been expecting you,” Myranda says with a curtsy. “I trust your journey was safe.”

“Very, thanks to Lord Royce,” Catelyn says politely. 

Lord Nestor and Myranda offer them bread and salt and then feed them a supper of salted pork and mulled wine. Sansa is exhausted from the journey, and her full belly of good food and warm wine makes her even sleepier. She has only a vague memory of following Myranda to her room before flopping down on the feather bed, falling asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow.

.

When she wakes in the morning, it’s to find herself beside a gently snoring Jeyne. A maid is at the grate, stirring the fire in its hearth. When she sees Sansa, she drops into a curtsy.

“I hope I did not disturb you, my lady.”

“Not at all. Is it late?”

“Not very. Your mother is still abed.”

Sansa nods. “Could you have hot water brought up for a bath?”

“At once, Lady Stark.”

Jeyne rolls over once the maid is gone. “A bath. Mmmm.”

“I know. I can’t wait.” Sansa stretches her limbs. “How did you sleep?”

Jeyne makes a happy moan in response.

Two maids bring up a copper tub and fill it with pails of steaming water. Sansa and Jeyne both climb into the tub, washing each other’s hair and backs and all the places they can’t reach on their own. Sansa scrubs at her skin with the brush, rejoicing in the feeling of cleanness. She scrubs until her skin is pink and gleaming, and when Jeyne has done the same, they climb out of the tub and dry themselves off by the fire. They braid each other’s damp hair and then change into their clothes; blue silk for Sansa and silver velveteen for Jeyne. 

As they’ve slept so late, they only take a bit of toast with blackberry jam to tide them over until their midday meal. They’re just finishing up when Myranda Royce comes in, all smiles. She’s a comely woman, and one of the most buxom Sansa has ever met. She wonders why Myranda isn’t married, and if it has something to do with Ser Andar, Harry the Heir, and Lord Arryn. 

“Good morning, Lady Sansa, Lady Poole. How did you sleep?”

“Wonderfully,” Sansa says honestly. 

“I’m glad to hear it. My father wants me to take on more responsibility in hosting our guests, so if you need anything, you only have to ask.”

“Thank you, Lady Royce.”

Myranda inclines her head. “I also came to bring you to Lord Arryn’s chambers; he’s with your mother, and requests your presence.”

“Of course.” Sansa rises. “Please lead the way.”

Myranda takes her to a set of apartments in a high tower. Sitting by a roaring fire is Lady Catelyn and a boy wrapped in so many furs he looks like a bear. 

“Thank you, Lady Royce,” Catelyn says, dismissing the younger woman. Myranda curtsies and leaves them.

“Sansa, come meet your cousin, Lord Robin Arryn. Sweetrobin, this is your cousin, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa curtsies for the little Lord Arryn, who watches her with curious eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, cousin.”

“And you,” he says with grave courtesy. “I trust you slept well?”

“Very well, thank you.” Sansa takes the chair that her mother indicates, trying to appraise her new acquaintance. It’s hard to see much of him, wrapped in as many furs as he is, but he has a face as white as snow and dark, squinting eyes. His nose is dripping, and he keeps reaching up to wipe it. “You probably don’t remember the last time we met; you were only a baby.”

“Mm,” he says, looking into the fire. “I’m sorry you couldn’t see the Eyrie. It’s much nicer than this place.”

“The Gates of the Moon is a fine home,” Catelyn says sternly. “This is where your ancestors, the Kings of Mountain and Vale, used to live.”

“ _ Used _ to,” Robin dismisses. 

Sansa can see now what Ser Andar meant when he spoke of Robin. The boy is indeed spoiled and sickly. “I shall have to visit another time so I can see it in all its glory.”

“This place doesn’t even have a Moon Door,” he complains. 

“Perhaps you would like to Sansa around,” Catelyn suggests, visibly struggling to keep her temper. 

Robin considers this. “Well...I suppose.” He gets up, his movements stiff and awkward thanks to his furs. At a nod from her mother, Sansa follows him out of his apartments. 

“The castle is very old,” he says as they walk down the hall, disinterested. “Lord Nestor maintains it well, though. At least, that’s what they tell me.”

“Do you like Lord Nestor?” she asks, more for conversation than anything.

He shrugs. “He’s alright. I like his daughter.”

“Myranda?”

He nods. “She’s always kind to me. She was married once before, did you know?”

“I didn’t know,” Sansa says with some surprise. “Who was her husband?”

“A Hunter,” he tells her. “He was very old.” His voice drops down. “I heard he died while they were...together.”

Sansa flushes. “Oh.”

“It’s just a rumor,” he allows. “But you never know.”

“You never know,” she echoes. Some part of her can’t help but envy Myranda Royce. She can’t be much older than Sansa, and already she is a widow allowed to live at home and keep her family name. Having her husband die inside of her must have been upsetting, of course, but it’s earned her a lifetime of freedom.

“Do you think she’ll marry again?” she asks conversationally.

“She wants to, she told me. Her father offered her hand to Harry Hardyng, but Lady Waynwood refused.” He sounds satisfied. 

“Why did she refuse?”

“I think because she was married before. She’s not a virgin anymore.”

Bile rises in Sansa’s throat. Harry Hardyng has two bastard children, but Lady Waynwood will only consider a virgin bride for him. He becomes less and less appealing by the minute. 

“Do you know Harry? Have you met him?”

Robin turns to her, a sudden fury in his eyes. “I  _ hate _ him. I  _ hate _ Harry Hardyng! He’s not my heir! I will never let him have the Vale! Never, never, never!” he shouts, so violently and so angrily that he begins to tremble all over.

Sansa can only stare, horrified. Robin stumbles, shaking with such violence that she knows something is terribly wrong.

“My lord, are you alright?”

He doesn’t answer, only sinks to the floor where he continues shaking. Sansa gets on the ground, pulling him into her lap and trying to hold him still. “Help!” she calls down the corridor. “It’s Lord Arryn, please help!”

Two serving boys come out of a room and, seeing Robin shaking on the ground, bolt down the hall. In a few moments they return with the maester, who walks as quickly as he can. He kneels beside Robin with great effort, his joints stiff with age. 

“He’s alright,” he says, and sure enough, Robin’s shaking begins to subside. “This is a mild fit.”

Sansa stares at him. “This was mild?”

“The worst ones are when we have to put a leather strap in his mouth so he doesn’t bite his tongue,” the maester says sadly. “Pyp, Chell, can you carry Lord Arryn to his chamber, please?”

The serving boys kneel down, gently lifting Robin and carrying him down the corridor.

“Some sweetsleep and he’ll be alright,” the maester says, accepting Sansa’s arm as he gets to his feet. “It happens every now and then, my lady, no need to worry yourself.”

“Truly?” she asks skeptically.

He hesitates, and that gives Sansa all the answer she needs.

 


	56. JAIME IV

The whole way back to Castle Black, all Jaime can think about is what he saw at Hardhome. 

The Army of the Dead is real. They’re really real. Not a myth, not a nursemaid’s story. Real.

And they are coming for the living.

Nothing Jaime does or has ever done matters anymore. Joining the Kingsguard, killing Aerys, fucking his sweet sister, surrendering at the Whispering Wood...none of it mattered in the grand scheme of things. The Army of the Dead doesn’t care about a Kingsguard, they don’t care about who killed who, they don’t care about who calls themselves kings and queens. They only care about killing the living and then raising them from the dead. What Jaime’s done in life, who he is, won’t matter to them. His father, his sister, all the gold in Casterly Rock won’t make a difference.

This is truly the final reckoning.

When they do reach Castle Black, they stand out in the cold for a long moment before the gate opens. Jon and Edd exchange looks, and it occurs to Jaime that this may be a mutiny. It’s no secret that Alliser Thorne hates Jon, and Jaime wouldn’t put it past the First Ranger to lock out the Lord Commander and his band of wildlings if it gave him control of the Wall.

But at last the gate does open, and everyone troops gratefully inside. The Night’s Watch lead the way inside, standing to the side in the yard and watching as the wildlings pass through the tunnel. The fat lad, Samwell Tarly, comes out to join them, taking a place beside Jon, and Jaime can hear all of their conversation.

“It was a failure.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I went to save them. I failed.”

“You didn’t fail him,” Sam points out, nodding at the man passing them. “Or him. Or her. Every one of them is alive because of you and no one else.”

“I don’t think that fact’s lost on them.”

The three of them look across the yard, where some brothers of the Night’s Watch look at Jon in silent resentment. 

A long moment later, Thorne himself comes to stand beside Jon. 

“You have a good heart, Jon Snow. It’ll get us all killed.” He turns and leaves the younger man to stare after him.

Jaime takes his place. “Thorne is as prickly as his name.”

“You have that right.” Jon glances at him. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You saw the Army of the Dead. You fought them. What do you think?”

“Truthfully?” Jaime shakes his head. “I think we’re fucked.”

.

When all of the wildlings have passed through Castle Black, Jaime goes up to his room to warm himself by the fire. He changes his clothes, eager to get into something that isn’t sodden with snow, and as he takes off his tunic a piece of paper comes fluttering out.

Cersei’s letter. 

He reaches down to pick it up, staring at the entreaty.  _ Come to me, _ she’d said.  _ Come at once. _

The thought has never been more tempting. If he leaves now, he can put the Army of the Dead behind him. He can leave this shit country and go to warm and safe Pentos, staying forever in Cersei’s arms. 

But if he does that, then everyone he knows here will die, and how will he be able to live with himself? The wildlings that he just saved will be in danger once more. The Night’s Watch, already thin on the ground, will crumble in a second. The only thing that stands between the living and the dead is the Wall, and as he’s just seen, walls do little to keep out the dead. 

It’s as he told Jon: they’re fucked.

Jaime holds the letter in his hand...and then feeds it into the fire. He watches the paper blacken and curl, Cersei’s words turning to ash. He will always love his sweet sister. But this...this is something that goes beyond him or her. 

.

Jaime’s never been close with Samwell Tarly; a fat steward and son of one of the most dislikable men in Westeros, Jaime had never really seen the need. But when he sees the man preparing to leave with the wildling girl he’s always hanging around and that baby of hers, he can’t help but feel surprised. 

“Where’s he going?” he asks Jon. 

“To the Citadel,” Jon says, surprising him. “He wants to be a maester. The Night’s Watch has none anymore, and I can’t think of a man more fit for the job than Sam. Besides, we’ll need his help.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow. “ _ His _ help?”

“He may not be a warrior, but he can help us in other ways,” Jon says firmly. He and Sam are close. “When we were at Hardhome, I fought a white walker. I cut through it with my sword and it shattered into a thousand pieces, like glass.”

Jaime looks at him sharply. “I fought hundreds of those things with my sword. Do you think the white walkers are susceptible and the wights are not?”

“I think they’re all susceptible to Valyrian steel and dragonglass,” Jon explains. “When Sam was north of the Wall, he killed a white walker with a dragonglass blade. I think that’s the only way to kill them. Dragonglass, Valyrian steel...and fire.”

So the dead  _ can _ be defeated. But there isn’t enough dragonglass and Valyrian steel in Westeros to stop the dead, and fire is not an easy weapon to wield. 

“Sam will be at the world’s center of knowledge; he’ll have access to thousands of books that can help us.”

It is, Jaime decides, an excessively clever plan. “I don’t think I gave you enough credit when we met all that time ago, Jon Snow. You’re smarter than you look.”

“So are you.”

Jon takes his leave...and Alliser Thorne takes his place. 

“You and the Lord Commander have made friends rather quickly,” the other man notes in distaste.

“I don’t know if I would call us friends,” he says truthfully. “Brothers of the Night’s Watch, to be sure.”

“To be sure,” Thorne echoes. He turns fully to Jaime. “Do you know, I had a good life before your father won the war.”

“Robert won the war.” It’s an old lie, a tired one, but one Jaime has gotten used to speaking.

“Did he?” Thorne’s face does not change. “Because if I recall correctly, Tywin Lannister is the one who sacked King’s Landing.” He shakes his head. “He gave me a choice. Death, or the Wall. I was too craven to do the right thing. I should have died rather than join this miserable bunch of pig thieves and rapers and upjumped lordlings.”

“And yet, here you are,” Jaime says, already losing interest in the conversation.

“Here I am.” They’re quiet for a long moment, watching the snow fall. “I was too craven all those years ago to do the right thing. I won’t let that happen a second time.”

Jaime glances at him. “What are you talking about?”

Thorne looks more serious than Jaime’s ever seen him. “Listen to me, Lannister. I hated you and your family for years after I came north. You killed my king, your sister’s husband killed my prince, your bannermen raped and killed my princess and her children. I swore I would never forgive any of you for it.” He pauses. “But I need you now. This boy, this  _ bastard _ boy, will be the death of us all. The Wall has stood for a thousand years, keeping the wildlings out of our land. Now he lets them in and gives them land and livestock. He’s letting in the very thing our brotherhood is sworn to keep out.”

“Mutiny?” Jaime guesses. “You want to overthrow the Lord Commander?”

“Aye,” Thorne says gruffly. “I want him gone, and one of our own men in his place.”

“It won’t matter who’s in charge of Castle Black when the Night King marches on us.” 

Thorne shakes his head. “The Wall has stood for a thousand years. They say it was built with magic from the Children of the Forest. What army could possibly get through it? We’re safe as long as we stay here and stop opening our gates to every wildling who comes knocking.  _ They’re _ the ones getting turned into these wights.”

_ He’s afraid, _ Jaime realizes. He knows about the Army of the Dead, and he thinks the wildlings will bring them to Castle Black. 

“So what do you want to do?” he asks. “Truly, what is your plan?”

Thorne straightens up. “Kill Jon Snow.”

Jaime stares at him. “You want to  _ kill _ him?”

“He’s reckless, corrupt, and mad with power,” Thorne insists. “He’ll stop at nothing. He’s always been this way. It’s the only way to stop him.” His eyes, like chips of eye, narrow. “You’ll help us, won’t you?”

Jaime knows what a loaded question that is. If he says no, Thorne will likely find a way to silence him lest he go running off to tell Jon. But if he says yes…

He  _ can’t _ say yes. He can’t kill Jon. There’s no reason for it. He likes the lad, and he believes that Jon is doing everything he can to save the realm from the biggest threat they’ve ever known.

“Alright,” Jaime says at last. 

“You swear you won’t tell Lord Snow, nor anyone else about what I’ve said?”

“I swear,” he lies. Oathbreaker, they call him. It’s time he live up to his name.

Thorne nods, looking relieved. “Good. Tonight, when the men are in their beds, we’re going to be in the yard. Olly’s going to get Snow and bring him to us with a lie about his uncle. We’ll each have a blade. One stab for each man.”

“Alright. I’ll be there.”

“It’s the right thing, Lannister,” he says earnestly. “For all of us.”

.

Jaime lingers in the yard for a long time after Thorne leaves, turning the other man’s words over and over in his head.

_ They’re going to kill Jon Snow _ . Not just overthrow him, not just banish him, kill him. And then do what with the wildlings? Kill them, too? The Night’s Watch doesn’t have enough men for it. But if they write to the Northern lords and ask for their help in ridding them of the wildlings, he knows the Northerners would be only too happy to do so. They’ve hated the wildlings for hundreds of years, have dealt with them more than any other kingdom in the realm. It’s their wives and daughters who get raped, their livestock that gets butchered, their lands that get torched, and their lives that get destroyed when the wildlings get past the Wall. 

But Jaime has seen the Army of the Dead, and the Northerners haven’t. They don’t know that the wildlings are their allies in the fight against the dead, that they need every man they can get if they’re going to defeat the Night King and his army. 

And if Jon is dead and Thorne is in charge…

When it finally grows dark, he makes up his mind. 

.

Jon is in his study when Jaime finds him. He looks up at the other man with a tired smile, but it fades when Jaime bars the door  behind him and draws a chair close to Jon’s.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Tell me,” Jon urges.

Jaime takes a deep breath. “Thorne is planning to commit mutiny tonight. Olly is going to lure you down to the yard with a lie about your uncle, and when you get there, Thorne and several others will be waiting. They’re each going to stab you until you’re dead.”

Jon stares at him for a long moment. “How do you know this?”

“Thorne told me.”

Jon leans back in his seat. “He told you? Just like that?”

“Not without giving me a charming speech about how he should have done the right thing by choosing execution over the Watch. He wants you dead, Jon. He thinks it’s the only way to save the realm.”

Jon rubs his eyes. “Who are the others involved?”

“That, I don’t know,” Jaime admits. 

“And why are you telling me this?” Jon looks up at him. “I’m assuming that he wouldn’t have let you just walk away with this information if you weren’t planning on joining him.”

“I told him I would so that he wouldn’t kill me first, but I have no intention of helping them. That’s why I’m here now, telling you.”

Jon gazes at him for a long moment. “Why? Why do you want to help me?”

The question surprises Jaime. He thinks about it, choosing his words slowly. “Thorne spoke of being too craven to do the right thing when my father gave him his choice. Execution or the Wall. He chose the Wall, and he said it was the wrong choice. He said he should have died for what he believed in, and maybe this will right his wrong...something like that.” He pauses. “I’ve done...many ill things in my life, Jon Snow. I lay with my sister. I killed my king.”  _ I pushed your brother from a window. _ “I won’t lie to you; my sweet sister isn’t dead. She escaped to Pentos, where she’s waiting for me with our children. She sent me a letter and begged me to come to her. I could help Thorne and the others kill you, and they’d doubtless turn a blind eye while I quietly made my way to Eastwatch and boarded a ship for the Free Cities.” He shakes his head. “But after what I saw at Hardhome, I knew I couldn’t do that. The dead are coming, and you’re the only man I know who has the determination to stop them. You want to save everyone, even the wildlings, while your brothers would rather let them die. You know how important stopping the Night King is. I don’t think Thorne does. I don’t think any of them do. We  _ need _  you.  _ The Realm _ needs you.”

Jon stares at him for a long time. “You’ve changed since we first met, Lannister.”

“More’s the pity.”

Jon gives him a small smile, but it fades in a moment. “Well. What do we do?”

Cersei once said Jaime was the stupidest Lannister. She wasn’t wrong. But even the stupidest Lannister has some tricks up his sleeve.

.

When the hour grows late, Jaime heads down to the yard. Thorne and a few other men are already there, faces grave. They nod at Jaime, and he sees that they’ve nailed a sign to a post. It reads:  **Traitor** . 

“Go and get him,” Thorne tells Olly. The boy rushes up the stairs to the Lord Commander’s tower to do as he’s bid.

Jaime is more nervous than he’d anticipated. Not that he’d taken any of this lightly, of course, but now that he’s actually here, about to do it…

Well. 

When Olly emerges with Jon Snow, Thorne goes to meet them at the bottom of the stairs. The two men are exchanging words, something about Benjen Stark, when the small gathering of men parts for Jon.

A sharp, sweet note rings through the air as Jon and Jaime both pull their swords from their scabbards.

“Now!” Jon shouts, and the yard fills with the sound of wildlings shouting as they pour through the gate. They surround the group of men, weapons at the ready. At their head are Tormund Giantsbane and Mance Rayder.

Jaime aims his sword at Thorne, who can only stare back at him in disbelief. 

“I, Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, do here charge you with treason and mutiny,” Jon proclaims. 

Thorne’s eyes narrow at Jaime, who can only shrug. “You told me to do the right thing.”

“Gods curse you, Jaime Lannister,” Thorne spits, throwing his dagger on the ground. Slowly, the other men do the same, surrendering.

“The gods have already cursed me,” he says indifferently. “What’s one more bitter word from the cracked lips of a defeated old man?”

Thorne looks furious, but the wildlings lead him away, along with the other mutineers. 

Jon lowers his arm, sighing. “They’ll need a trial.”

“Hang that. Hang  _ them. _ They were going to kill you,” Jaime reminds him, sheathing his sword. “You don’t owe them the courtesy of a trial.”

“I know, but it’s the right thing to do.”

Jaime shakes his head. “Your father taught you  _ too _ well. Honor is all well and good, but these men have none.”

“Which is why it’s all the more important for me to do the honorable thing,” Jon insists. “If we use dishonorable people as our standard for comparison, then honor means a little less, and a little less, until it means nothing at all.  _ Honor _ should be our standard for comparison, so that dishonor means all the more.”

Jaime shakes his head. “That honor of yours will get you killed someday, Snow.”

Jon smiles. “Aye; that’s what everyone keeps telling me.”


	57. JEYNE XI

“...and the maester says he still isn’t well enough to leave his bed, which is absolute rubbish; at this point, bedrest can only do that boy more harm than good.” 

Lady Catelyn is in a temper, and Sansa and Jeyne wisely keep their mouths closed and move as little as possible so as not to invoke her wrath. 

“I’d hoped that the lords of the Vale would take a firmer hand with Robin, but they all want to curry favor with him, so no one will treat him the way he ought to be treated. Lord Nestor has been the worst; I left Robin in his keeping, but he’s been lax with the boy.”

That’s hardly a surprise; Jeyne heard the servant girls gossip, and if what they said is true, Lord Nestor is hoping that Robin will marry his daughter, Myranda. Apparently he’d already offered her hand to Harry Hardyng, but Lady Waynwood had rebuffed him, hoping for a better offer. 

_ Probably hoping for Sansa, _ Jeyne thinks idly. The Royces are an ancient and noble house, and one that just about every family in the Vale has married into. Myranda is hardly beneath Harry Hardyng’s station. No, Lady Waynwood must have set her sights higher...all the way up to the North, in fact.

“And now Lady Waynwood and her household are coming, and I  _ know _ Robin is going to feign sick until they leave so he won’t have to look at Harrold Hardyng, but I can hardly  _ force _ him to get out of bed and host them.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well,” Sansa offers. “Just the mention of Harry Hardyng seems to upset Robin; he might shake himself into a serious fit if he lays eyes on him.”

Lady Catelyn pauses in her diatribe to consider this. “Perhaps. But he must face the man sooner or later. Harry  _ is _ his heir, whether he likes it or not, and if Robin spends two weeks in bed every time he has a fit, he’s unlikely to produce another heir.”

“I thought you wanted me to marry him,” Sansa accuses.

Catelyn sighs, her anger finally cooling. “I did. I had hoped that he would be better when we came to visit. But now…”

She doesn’t need to finish. Now, there is little question of Sansa marrying Robin, not unless she wants to play the nursemaid for the rest of his life. 

“If his health continues thus,” Catelyn continues, “it is quite likely we will see Harry Hardyng ruling the Vale...but I must be frank, Sansa: I do not like the things I hear about him.”

“Nor do I,” Sansa agrees. 

“I heard the servants talking,” Jeyne pipes up. “Harry the Hard, they call him.”

Catelyn closes her eyes, nostrils flaring as she takes a deep breath. “No. He will not do.”

“And yet, he’s arriving tonight,” Sansa points out. “At  _ your _ invitation.”

“Another oversight. We will be kind and courteous, but I will be clear with Lady Waynwood that his behavior troubles me...as it should her.”

“It doesn’t,” Sansa snorts. “She rejected Myranda Royce because she wasn’t a virgin.”

“I heard it was because she was setting her sights higher,” Jeyne says. “On  _ you _ .”

“She can set her sights on Princess Shireen, for all I care; I’m not going to marry a man like that.”

Catelyn sighs. “So that leaves us with Ser Andar.”

“I like Ser Andar. He’s kind.”

“I like him too,” Catelyn agrees. “Lord Royce is one of our closest allies, and one of the most honorable men I’ve met. You would be happy in his household, I’m sure. And Runestone is close enough to the sea that you could take a ship to White Harbor whenever you felt like visiting.”

“Can’t I just marry him?”

“It would be rude for me to suggest it before you’ve met Harry. Lady Waynwood would take it as an insult. We must at least give Harry a chance to offer his suit before you make a decision.”

Sansa flops back on her bed. “Fine.”

“Have you and Ser Andar discussed marriage?”

Sansa sits up, cheeks flaming. “Well. Only a little. He hasn’t...made an offer, if that’s what you mean.”

“If he does, you must tell me straight away,” Catelyn urges.

“Of course.”

Catelyn nods. “I’m going to see that everything is ready for the Waynwoods’ arrival tonight.” She excuses herself, and Sansa flops back against the bed again.

“I want Ser Andar to propose just so that this will be  _ over _ ,” she groans. Grey Wind, who’s been curled up on the bed, noses at her face; she winces, turning away from his rough tongue, and reaches up to scratch him behind the ears. 

“I’m sure he will,” Jeyne assures her. “He seems very fond of you, and you seem fond of him.”

“I am,” Sansa admits. “I don’t... _ love _ him, but he is my friend. I’d like to marry a friend.”

“I’d like that for you too.” Jeyne also sits on the bed, petting Grey Wind’s back. “And with time, perhaps you can grow to love him.”

Sansa’s quiet, and Jeyne knows that she’s thinking about it. Everything Lady Catelyn said is true; the Royces are a good and honorable family, they’re good allies to the North, and Runestone is close enough to the sea that Sansa could easily visit Winterfell whenever she wanted. Well, not  _ whenever _ , but often enough. 

Jeyne thinks she’d like it in Runestone, too. She likes the Vale, what she’s seen of it. It will be a good place for Sansa, and that’s good enough for Jeyne. Sansa will marry Ser Andar and become Lady Royce, and she’ll have children with Tully red hair and blue eyes, and Jeyne will love them and cherish them like her own. That’s all she wants. That’s all she needs.

.

Lady Waynwood’s party arrives just as night is beginning to fall. The Royces and Starks greet them in the hall, where they take bread and salt and exchange pleasantries. 

Lady Waynwood is an elegant, willowy woman with grey curls piled atop her head. She speaks in a firm but lilting voice, telling Lady Catelyn how glad she is to see her and what a pleasure it is to meet her daughter Sansa, at last.

“This is my ward, Harrold Hardyng,” she introduces, and Jeyne finally sees what all the fuss is about.

Harry Hardyng is undeniably attractive. He has a lean but solid build, blond hair that catches the torchlight, and blue eyes that keep lingering on Sansa. He’s handsome, and he knows it. 

“Lady Stark,” he greets in a deep voice, bowing over her hand and kissing it. “Lady Sansa.”

Sansa glances back at Jeyne as if to ask,  _ What do you think? _

Jeyne smiles and gives a small shake of her head. Sansa smiles back and nods.

“It is an honor to meet you at last, Ser Harrold,” Sansa says smoothly. “We have heard so much about you.”

He smiles in a way that Jeyne is sure brings maidens to their knees. “All good, I hope.”

Sansa laughs in response. “Shall we go in to dinner?”

“Where is Lord Arryn?” Lady Waynwood asks as they file into the great hall. 

“He is not feeling well,” Catelyn apologizes. 

“I see,” Lady Waynwood sniffs. She clearly does not believe that Robin is ill, and Jeyne wonders how many times he’s pulled this trick before. “My condolences; I had hoped to visit him.”

“Perhaps he will be well enough to see you tomorrow.”

“I won’t hold my breath. The boy is always sick, especially when my ward comes to visit.”

Catelyn purses her lips, but Lady Waynwood waves a dismissive hand. “It makes no matter. Shall we?”

Lady Waynwood sits with Catelyn and the Lords Royce while Sansa is seated beside Harry. On her other side is Jeyne, and sitting beside her is Myranda, who clearly wants to put as much distance between herself and Harry as possible. She instead engages Jeyne in conversation, talking loudly and often; no doubt so that Harry will hear her. It makes it very annoying for Jeyne, who’s trying to eavesdrop on Sansa and Harry’s conversation. It sounds as if he’s doing most of the talking, which comes as little surprise. 

“...and anyway, why should I marry a Redfort when I could stay  _ here _ ?” Myranda takes a sip of wine and, without changing her tone at all, continues, “He’s rather pompous, isn’t he?”

Jeyne nearly chokes on her lamb. “Pardon, my lady?”

“ _ You _ know who I mean.” Myranda’s eyes glitter. “Harry,” she mouths.

“I suppose so.” In truth, Jeyne  _ does _ find him pompous, but she isn’t entirely sure if she trusts Myranda yet. Not that there’s anything particularly untrustworthy about the other woman, but Jeyne has learned to be careful in whom she confides. 

“Do you know, my father offered him my hand,” Myranda says with a careful attempt at looking unaffected. “But Lady Waynwood refused.”

“I had heard that.”

“Everyone has by now, I’m sure.” Myranda looks around the room with distaste. “In her response, she said she wouldn’t consider a widow for her ward, but personally, I think she got wind that your lady was looking for husbands and wanted to present Harry to her.”

So Jeyne was right. “Truly?”

“It’s only a guess,” Myranda admits. “But I can’t imagine why else she would’ve refused. I may be a widow, but I’m still young and fertile, and I share with my father the duties of maintaining the Gates of the Moon.”

“I suppose she wants a maid for him.”

“Aye. A maid, though Harry’s a known rogue. His bastards are the Vale’s worst kept secret. I was willing to look the other way, but not every woman is as generous as I am. Your lady, for instance, I can’t exactly see ignoring Harry’s...indiscretions.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Jeyne agrees. 

Myranda shakes her head. “He’ll get married to some simpering fool with nought in her head but air and sire dozens of bastards all over the Vale, and if Lord Arryn is unlucky enough to die without a son, Lord Hardyng will rule from the Eyrie.”

“Do you think that will happen?”

Myranda sips her wine. “Possibly. Let us hope it does not.”

Truth be told, neither Lord Arryn nor Harry Hardyng seem like fit rulers for the Vale. Sansa  _ should _ be its lady, a better ruler than either Robin or Harry, but at what cost? Marrying a sickly boy who may soon die? Marrying a known rogue who will never stay faithful to her? Sansa deserves better than that. 

_ She deserves someone like Ser Andar. _

The knight is kind to Sansa, and at the very least, he isn’t Robin or Harry. He isn’t Lord of the Vale or his heir, either, but that makes little difference. She’d still be a Princess of the North and Lady of Runestone someday. As long as she’s happy. That’s all Jeyne cares about--and all, she suspects, Sansa cares about too.

After dinner, Sansa and Jeyne excuse themselves to their room to retire. They pull on their nightclothes and get under the covers while Grey Wind curls up at the foot of the bed. Like many large dogs, Grey Wind seems to believe he is smaller than he really is, and even though he takes up a solid amount of the bed, they would never dream of trying to make him move. 

“Harry’s a pompous ass,” Sansa huffs. “Didn’t stop talking about himself long enough to have a real conversation.”

“Myranda says that Lady Waynwood refused her hand because she was saving him for you.”

Sansa is quiet for a moment. “So if I do not marry him, I risk offending the Waynwoods and the possible future Lord of the Vale.”

“It was bold of Lady Waynwood to assume you’d want to marry her ward.”

“Still. It won’t do to risk offending them.”

“Your marriage is going to offend somebody; might as well be Harry the Heir.”

Sansa’s lips curl into a small smile. “He truly thinks he’s the gods’ gift to women. It would be nice to see the look on his face when I choose Ser Andar over him.”

“Has Ser Andar made an offer yet?”

“No,” Sansa admits. “But...he will, don’t you think?”

He would be foolish not to, but Jeyne knows how these things can be. Lord Royce might receive pressure from Lady Waynwood, or Catelyn might receive pressure from the other Vale lords to marry Sansa to someone else. And then where would that leave Sansa?

“What if I have to marry Harry?” Sansa asks, her voice suddenly fearful. 

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

“Your mother would never make you marry someone you didn’t want to.”

“She would,” Sansa insists. 

“She would never approve of Harry, not with his bastards. She’s far more likely to marry you to Robin.”

“I wish I didn’t have to get married at all.”

“Remember what I said. Whenever you want to run away, we will.”

Sansa smiles. “You’re a true friend, Jeyne.”

“As are you.”

They thread their hands, smiling at each other until they drift off to sleep.

  
  



	58. ASHA IV

“Come back to bed,” Qarl groans. 

Asha shakes her head, biting her thumb. She didn’t have a hangnail before tonight, but now the skin is raw and chafed, worried by her teeth. She picks at the skin, ignoring the stinging pain. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

She shakes her head again. “I don’t know. I can feel it. The winds feel...different. Can’t you feel it?”

He sits up, looking at her with equal parts irritation and fondness. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Something’s not right, Qarl, I know it isn’t. It’s too...quiet.”

_ Silent _ .

“What do you want to do?” he asks, humoring her.

She hesitates. “Send a patrol.”

He groans. “Asha…”

“Do it,” she commands, no longer his lover but his queen. 

It’s quiet for a moment, and then she hears him shuffling out of bed, pulling on his clothes. “As you wish.”

Maybe they’ll find nothing. Maybe he’s right and it’s just her imagination, the remnant of a bad dream. 

Or maybe it’s something else.

.

She lies in uneasy half-sleep, waiting for Qarl to troop back in with a report. It will be nothing, she’s sure. Just her being stupid. 

She hears the footsteps thundering up the stairs to her room, and she’s out of bed and pulling on her boots before Qarl even throws open the door.

“You were right,” he blurts, breathless. “Ships with the Greyjoy kraken sigil are sailing this way.”

Euron. He’s rebuilt his fleet, and now he’s sailing for the Iron Islands, to retake them from his niece.

“Rouse the men, have them make ready,” she orders. Qarl leaves her, running down the stairs. She puts on her armor and ties back her hair, making ready for battle. She’s known this day was coming for a long time, but now that it’s here, she feels taken aback and uncertain. What if all her preparation hasn’t been enough? What if Euron defeats her? The first ruling queen of the Iron Islands, killed mere months into her reign. What a jape. 

.

Her men are waiting on the  _ Silence _ when she boards. The water is full of boats, all of them carrying men to their ships. 

“My cunt of an uncle thinks he can surprise us,” she bellows, loud enough that her voice will carry across the water to the rest of the fleet. “He thinks he can defeat us and take the Iron Islands for himself. Do you think he can do it?”

“No!” the men shout.

“Prove it to me!”

The men roar in approval, thumping their spears on the deck. With the kraken sails flying, Asha orders the fleet to move forward. It’ll be a hell of a battle in a night as black as pitch, with both sides flying the kraken, but Asha’s never backed down from a challenge yet.

.

They don’t see Euron’s fleet until they’re right on top of them. It makes no matter; Euron doesn’t see them coming, and though both sides are surprised, Asha’s men quickly gain the upperhand. They, at least, knew Euron was coming, whereas he thought to take them in their beds. 

_ Dumb cunt, _ Asha thinks viciously.

Her fleet crashes into Euron’s; grappling hooks fly onto his decks, dragging on the timber before finding purchase. With a savage roar, her men leap onto his ships, axes and hammers swinging. Asha herself joins the melee, cutting down any man who comes at her. She’s always been better than most men, but so has Euron. She just has to be better than him. Just this once. 

It could be minutes or an hour before she sees Euron; either way, it both feels too sudden and too long in coming. There’s blood splattered across his face, and in the glow of flames around him, his face looks more haunting than ever. He sees her and grins.

Asha wipes the sweat from her eyes and stretches her hand, flexing it before grasping her axe by its hilt again. Euron doesn’t move, and she knows that he’s waiting for her to come to him so he can trap her into a misstep. But if she waits on him, then she looks a coward.

_ Damn him. _

She hefts her axe and runs forward, shouting. Euron sees her coming and leans forward, knees bent and ready. His axe locks with hers; he spins them to the side, throwing her off balance. She trips over a corpse, cursing as she struggles to regain her footing. Euron takes advantage of her momentary lapse to advance; he brings his axe down over her, but she blocks his blow, arms straining with the effort of keeping him at bay. He grins at her, his horrible breath in her face.

“Good to see you again, Asha.”

She brings up her leg, using her shin to hit him where it hurts. He doubles over, his grip on his axe slackening just enough for her to knock it out of his hands. There’s a crowd around them now, watching as Greyjoy fights Greyjoy.

Euron reaches for her head, fingers scrabbling for hair or skin, anything that he can hold onto. Asha moves her head, taking one of his fingers between her teeth and biting down. He screams in agony, his other hand coming up to push at her head, but she doesn’t let go until she’s bitten off his finger entirely. He falls away as she spits out the digit, blood on her lips. 

Euron dives for his axe, but Asha brings down her own, crushing his hand. He screams in pain, his free hand tugging at her axe; she wrenches it out of the wood, where it’s become embedded, and brings it down again. He rolls out of the way just as she does; she misses his head and ends up with her axe in the deck again. 

A couple of Euron’s men move forward, but he holds up his good hand. “Stay back!” he barks, staggering to his feet. “She’s mine.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She loosens her axe, crouching into a defensive stance. “I’m not yours. The Seastone Chair isn’t yours. The Iron Islands aren’t yours. Not even the  _ Silence _ is yours anymore. You don’t have anything.”

He looks around at the gathering of men. “I have my crew.”

“Whose tongues you cut out. Tell me, if they had the chance, do you think any of them would hesitate to kill you?”

He grins that horrible grin again. “My men are loyal to me.”

“We’ll see about that.” Asha bolts forward, axe at the ready. Euron’s left hand holds his axe--not his good hand--and swings, but she blocks him easily and twists his arm until he drops the axe. He falls to his knees, reaching for something, anything, but she stomps on his good hand, pinning him in place. He thrashes, but one blow to his spine incapacitates him; she steps back and delivers the final strike, removing his head from his shoulders.

Breathing hard, she bends down and lifts his head by the hair. 

The screams from her men are deafening. 

_ “ASHA! QUEEN ASHA!” _

Smiling, she lets the head drop from her fingers. “I need a fucking drink.”


	59. ROS II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry! Have a longer one in the works.

It was only a matter of time.

She’s walking around the pleasure house, making sure everyone is having a good time, when she sees him.

Bronn. Lord Tyrion’s sellsword. 

He’s sitting at a table with Elora in his lap, whispering no doubt filthy things in his ear, when his eyes catch hers. Any thought Ros had of slipping away unseen is gone, and she can only stand rooted to the spot. 

“Fucking hell,” he says at long last, and Elora pulls back with an affronted expression. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Feigning innocence is the best tactic, she’s found. It won’t do to reveal she knows he’s here to protect Cersei Lannister. 

“An unexpected change in circumstances.” He pours a cup of wine, indicating the seat across from him. “Join us, won’t you?”

“My wenching days are over. This is my pleasure house,” she informs him. 

He raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“You’ve done well for yourself, then.” He tilts his head. “Was that before or after you helped Sansa Stark escape?”

The room is suddenly full of a loud buzzing. Ros swallows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.” He pats Elora’s hip, urging her to stand up. “And I think you know why I’m here. So let’s go somewhere and talk, you and me.”

Ros forces a smile. “Of course. This way.” She leads Bronn to her study, closing the door behind him. He makes himself right at home, sprawling out on one of the chairs facing her desk.

“What can I do for you, Ser Bronn?” she asks stiffly, seating herself.

He takes out his knife and starts cleaning his nails with it. “As it so happens, you can help me get out of a, shall we say, tight spot.”

She raises her eyebrows. “What sort of tight spot?”

“The sort where I sided with the wrong Lannister.” He points his knife at her. “You know Cersei’s here. Don’t try and deny it. That stupid cunt Meryn Trant came here looking for a little girl and you had him followed.”

“I wondered what a member of the Kingsguard was doing in Pentos when his place is by the royal family, who supposedly blew up with the rest of King’s Landing.”

Bronn shakes his head. “Like I said. Stupid cunt. Bad enough he was a member of the Kingsguard, but then to make himself stand out by being the only Westerosi in Pentos looking for a little girl to beat and rape.”

“What do you want, Bronn?” she asks, her nerves putting her on edge.

“Oh, don’t look so worried; it’s a small favor, really.” He looks nonchalantly at his nails, flexing his fingers to see his handiwork. “See, Cersei promised me an awful lot of gold, but the problem is, she’s stuck here in Pentos, and everyone in Westeros thinks she’s dead. She has no way of getting her hands on that Casterly Rock gold. Sooner or later, the gold she brought with her is going to run out. Now, her daughter, little Myrcella, is frantic to get back to Dorne and her beloved Prince Trystane. She seems to believe he’ll pay handsomely for her safe return.”

“I see.” She leans back in her chair. “So how do I come into play?”

“I need you to send a message to Trystane. Cersei and her maester will know if I send anything, and if he sends anything back to me…” He shakes his head. “Can’t risk it.”

“That’s it? Just send a message?”

“It’s not just a message, love. If it gets into the wrong hands, think what that’ll mean. Everyone will know Cersei and Tommen are still alive, and then she’ll find out that they’ve found out, and it won’t be hard for her to piece it together.”

Ros leans back in her seat, thinking. The safest way to ensure the message gets to Prince Trystane is to put it directly into his hands. But she can’t afford to leave the pleasure house for so long. She’ll have to find someone else, someone she trusts, to deliver the message. But who? 

_ Devan _ . The boy is both competent and discreet, and a trip to Dorne for him and his mother may be a welcome treat for them both. 

“I think that can be arranged,” she decides at last. “But what if Trystane doesn’t want Myrcella back?”

“Then I’ll take her and Tommen and go east,” Bronn says smoothly, and she knows he’s thought this out. “Word has it that Tyrion joined up with Daenerys Targaryen in Meereen. He’d be ever so grateful for my returning them safely to him, and no doubt he’d be eager to hire me into his service once more. Either way, there’ll be gold in it for you.”

Ros smiles. “A man with a plan.”

“I always have a plan. Except when I don’t.” He pockets his knife. “So, have we got a deal?”

“We do,” she agrees. 

He grins. “So how about a fuck on the house?”

“Elora will suck your cock free of charge; anything else, you have to pay for.”

“Fair enough.”

  
  



	60. SANSA XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe we are at SIXTY chapters of this thing. When I started it I was so afraid I'd quit halfway through! Thanks all for reading and reviewing <3

Sansa, Jeyne, Catelyn, and Robin are eating breakfast in Robin’s solar when he makes an announcement that startles all of them.

“I want to marry Lady Myranda.”

All three women look up quickly, eyes wide as they exchange glances. 

“Myranda Royce?” Catelyn clarifies, though there is no need to; there is only one Myranda he could be referring to.

“Yes,” he says, looking deeply unperturbed. “She’s kind to me, and I like her better than the other ladies in the Vale. She runs her father’s household, so she could help me rule the Vale, and she’s of noble birth, so she’d be a good match.”

Everything he says is true, but Sansa can’t understand where this came from. He’s still a child, and Myranda...Myranda is even older than she is. She’s not just a woman grown, she’s a widow. 

“What...made you decide this?” Catelyn asks, setting down her fork.

Robin shrugs. “I was thinking, is all. I know I’m too young to wed, but I don’t mind waiting. We could still be betrothed, couldn’t we?”

“Yes,” Catelyn allows. “You could. But...we’d have to talk to Lord Nestor about it.”

“Fine,” he says indifferently.

She leans back, sharing a look with her daughter. Sansa shrugs, just as much at a loss as her mother.

“Well...it  _ would _ be a good match,” Catelyn allows at last. “I’m only worried that when you do come of age, your feelings will be...changed.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Betrothals can always be broken,” Sansa points out. “Or they could marry without consummating the marriage just yet. You’d still be regent, but Myranda could manage more of the Vale’s affairs while you’re in Winterfell.”

Something flickers across Catelyn’s face. “Robin...did Myranda suggest this marriage?”

“She likes me,” he says stubbornly. 

Ah. So there it is. Myranda suggested the match to the impressionable young lord, or at least planted the idea in his head. She’d be Lady of the Vale when he comes of age.

_ Clever Myranda, _ Sansa can’t help thinking. 

Catelyn considers this. “It  _ is _ a good match,” she says again. “But I need to think about it first.” 

“Alright,” Robin says, still sounding indifferent. “May I be excused?”

“You’ve hardly eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Catelyn purses her lips. Robin is never hungry, and it’s part of why he’s so small and frail. But forcing him to eat only makes him sick, as they’ve learned the hard way; Catelyn made him eat everything on his plate one morning and he’d spent the rest of the day throwing up. Myranda may have been clever in suggesting a marriage to Robin, but she won’t feel quite so clever if Robin dies.

“Very well,” she relents. 

Robin gets up and leaves. Catelyn waits for the door to close before turning back to Sansa and Jeyne. “ _ Well _ .”

“It’s a good match,” Sansa echoes. “But…”

“But,” Catelyn agrees. “I don’t like that Myranda was the one to suggest it, and that she went to Robin instead of having her father speak with me about it. That was ill done.”

“She probably thought it best to win him over first,” Jeyne points out. “Seeing as how he can be...stubborn.”

“Stubborn is an understatement,” Catelyn says grimly. “Well, I don’t see any reason to  _ refuse _ her offer, assuming her father and I can come to an agreement. And it would solve the problem of Robin’s marriage nicely. It also means it would be ill advised for you to marry him, Sansa; the Royces would take offence if I rejected Myranda and gave him your hand.”

“She can have him,” Sansa says bluntly. “I don’t want him.”

“It would have to be a betrothal; marrying them too soon would give Myranda too much power,” Catelyn muses aloud. “And there’s always the chance that Robin will change his mind when he gets old enough.” She nods. “I’ll speak to Lord Nestor. Lord Yohn, too; perhaps he can offer some...insight.”

Sansa feeds a piece of bacon to Grey Wind, who takes it carefully from her hand. “Mother?”

“Yes, Sansa?”

“If and when I get married, may I bring Grey Wind with me?”

Catelyn considers her question. “I suppose that would be up to your husband...and his family. But if he agrees, then I think it would be only right. You lost Lady, and Grey Wind lost Robb.” Her voice turns heavy with grief, as it often does when speaking of Robb. “I think your brother would be pleased to know his wolf was looking out for you.”

As if agreeing, Grey Wind licks Sansa’s hand, resting his enormous head on her lap. She scratches him behind the ears, trying not to feel a pang of sadness at the thought of her brother and Lady. 

A knock on the door makes Grey Wind lift his head, ears pricking up. 

“Come in,” Catelyn calls, setting down her fork.

Ser Andar enters, bowing his head. “Pardon, my ladies, I did not know you were at breakfast.”

“We were nearly finished,” Sansa says, feeling oddly breathless as she so often does around Ser Andar. She doesn’t think it’s  _ love _ , exactly, but it is a strange kind of exhilaration that makes her heart beat fast and her cheeks feel warm. 

“What can we do for you, Ser Andar?” Catelyn asks.

He clears his throat. “I had promised to show Lady Sansa the glass gardens. I thought now might be the opportune time.”

He had vaguely mentioned it before, but Sansa knows a ruse to be alone when she sees one. She glances at her mother, who can barely contain a smile. 

“Sansa, would you like to see the glass gardens?”

“Very much.” Sansa drops her napkin on the table and rises. “Lead the way, Ser Andar.”

Ser Andar offers her his arm, and she takes it. 

.

The glass gardens of the Gates of the Moon are lovely, even more so than those of Winterfell. Whereas the gardens in Winterfell are almost entirely for growing food, the gardens of the Gates of the Moon are more ornamental, with flowers and grasses and trees from all over Westeros. There’s even a fig tree from Lys, carefully preserved in sand-like soil. 

Ser Andar walks at a leisurely pace, allowing Sansa to admire as much of the gardens as she likes. Jeyne walks slowly behind them, eyes cast demurely to the ground. Sansa knows she’s trying not to listen, but she wouldn’t fault Jeyne if she did hear anything; the two women are closer than sisters, and Sansa trusts her wholly. Besides, anything said between Sansa and Ser Andar will be repeated to Jeyne later.

Sansa stops at a rosebush, admiring the fragrant pink petals. “These are beautiful,” she comments.

“As are you.”

Sansa gives him a wry look. “Come on, surely you can do better than that.”

He smiles, glancing over at Jeyne and then pulling Sansa around the corner, out of sight. Jeyne, mercifully, does not follow. He takes Sansa’s hands, breathing deeply. “Lady Sansa...you must know what I am going to ask you.”

“I have a strong suspicion, but don’t let that stop you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Very well. In truth, Sansa, I was ambivalent when my father suggested the match. He’s been suggesting brides for me all my life, and none of them held my interest. This one was different, he said, because you are not just a lady; you are a princess. I was willing to meet you and court you, but in truth, I did not expect to like you as much as I do. You are charming and kind and intelligent, and I enjoy being in your company. I don’t need to name all the reasons our match would be a good one; we both know them. But I will tell you that I like you very much, Sansa Stark, and I would be a good husband to you. Your comfort and happiness are important to me. I would never ask anything of you that would upset you or compromise your happiness. I know you are close to your family and will miss them, and I would give you my blessing to visit them often and to host them in our home. If I ever fail in my duties as your husband, if you ever find cause to be unhappy with me, I pray you tell me so that I can change.”

Sansa beams up at him. It’s a good proposal, and honest. “Well?”

He looks nervous. “Well, what?”

“Are you going to ask me a question?”

He laughs again, and then gets down on one knee. “Sansa of House Stark, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

“On one condition.”

“Name it,” he urges.

“My brother’s direwolf must come with me.”

Andar smiles. “Done.”

“Then yes.” She beams again, feeling happy and light. “I will marry you, Andar of House Royce.”

He gets to his feet, leaning down to kiss her. It’s her first kiss, and it does not disappoint; his lips are soft and gentle, and she hums approvingly.

_ She’s going to marry Ser Andar. _

.

Catelyn and Lord Yohn are overjoyed when the young couple approaches them. Sansa knew they would be, but their happiness is infectious, filling her with a sort of giddiness. 

Lord Yohn announces the betrothal over dinner in the great hall that night, toasting the future bride and groom. Most of the hall follows suit, raising their cups and drinking to Sansa and Andar.

The only person who does not is Harry Hardyng, who looks stormy-faced; as soon as he decently can, he gets up and leaves the room. 

Sansa does not fail to notice this, nor does Jeyne; the two friends exchange glances, eyebrows raised. 

“He was upset,” Jeyne says when they go to bed that night. “He clearly thought being next in line for the Eyrie made up for his terrible personality.”

“I hope Robin does marry Myranda, and gets sons on her; I shudder to think of Harry ruling the Vale.” Truly, Sansa fears that his earlier unhappiness may manifest in hostility against the Royces of Runestone, or worse, the North itself. She wants to believe he wouldn’t be that petty...but only a petty man would storm out of the hall the way he did tonight. 

“I hope, for Myranda’s sake, he lasts longer than her first husband.” Jeyne suddenly bursts into giggles.

“What?”

“ _ Lasts longer _ .”

Sansa bursts into giggles too. She rolls onto her side, looking at her friend. “Will you like it? Here in the Vale?”

“Will you?”

That’s the question Sansa keeps asking herself. Will she be happy here? She believes Ser Andar when he says he’ll be kind and make her happy, but what if that isn’t enough? So far from her home and her family?

_ It will be alright. It must be. _

“As long as you’re with me,” she says at last.

“I will like the Vale so long as you’re with me,” Jeyne says simply. “And I will be happy so long as you are happy.”

Sansa doesn’t know what she would do without Jeyne. 

.

In the morning, while she and Jeyne are taking their usual walk outdoors, they see the Waynwood party packing their horses and drays. Sharing a look with Jeyne, Sansa approaches Lady Waynwood.

“You’re leaving?”

Lady Waynwood glances up at her and sighs. “Yes. My ward is...indisposed.”

“Because I did not accept his suit?” Sansa asks boldly.

Lady Waynwood does not try to deny it. “Yes. He was...hopeful. Perhaps too much so. I warned him there would be others, but he did not heed me.”

Sansa is surprised but relieved by Lady Waynwood’s honesty. “What will you do now?”

“Gods know.”

Still feeling bold, Sansa says, “Perhaps you would reconsider Myranda Royce’s suit.”

Lady Waynwood makes a “tch” sort of noise. “It’s not a question of whether  _ I _ would consider it. I encouraged Harry to take her hand. It was his decision to refuse her.”

_ That _ surprises Sansa. “But...he’s your ward…”

“He’s a man grown, and my influence only goes so far,” Lady Waynwood points out. “I admire Lord Nestor, and Myranda is a fine woman of good birth and reputation, and she manages her father’s household well. I told Harry he’d have trouble finding a better match.” Her already thin lips grow even smaller as she steps closer, lowering her voice. “He told me...that he had already sampled Lady Myranda’s pleasures and could not marry a woman who gave herself so freely.”

Sansa steps back, shocked.  _ Myranda lay with Harry? _

“I know my ward’s reputation,” Lady Waynwood says frankly. “It did not surprise me to learn that he had seduced a noble woman with a good head on her shoulders. I pity Myranda, and I pray she makes a good match. I can only hope that Harry will come to his senses sooner or later. And between you and me, Lady Sansa...I am relieved that you are marrying Ser Andar. Harry would have made you a terrible husband.” She inclines her head. “Until we meet again, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa curtsies, returning to Jeyne’s side. 

“What did she say?”

Sansa takes her arm and murmurs all that Lady Waynwood told her.

Jeyne’s eyes are wide. “Poor Myranda.”

“Poor Myranda,” Sansa agrees. “She doesn’t want Robin so she can be Lady of the Vale, she wants Robin to make Harry look foolish for rejecting her.”

“Good. He needs to feel foolish.”

“And with his intended bride marrying a Royce and the Royce he spurned becoming Lady of the Vale, he will.” 

.

With Sansa’s betrothal set and Catelyn’s blessing for Robin and Myranda’s future wedding bestowed, the Northern party heads home. Lord Yohn and Ser Andar accompany them to the Kingsroad lest the hill tribes attack. They part at the crossroads inn, after a blissful night spent under a roof and not in a tent. 

As eager as Sansa is to get back home, part of her dreads it. She’ll have to leave in just a few months, to marry Ser Andar and make Runestone her new home. All her time in Winterfell will be spent preparing for her new life; she’ll be packing things and tying up loose ends and parting with her girlhood forever. The next time she’ll be in Winterfell, she’ll be a married woman with a different name. 

She’ll be happy with Ser Andar, she knows. He’ll be a good husband to her, and Lord Yohn will be a second father to her. Jeyne will be there, and Grey Wind, and gods willing, soon there will be children. 

The morning she departs, she and Ser Andar take a walk outside, in sight of the others but far enough off that they can speak privately. 

“The next time we see each other, we’ll be getting married,” he comments. 

“Yes.” 

He glances at her. “Does that...displease you?”

“No,” she hastens to assure him. “It’s only...it’s so hard to believe. I’ve always known I would be married and leave my home to be with my husband, but now that it’s happening, it feels...I don’t know. It hasn’t quite hit me yet.”

“I will endeavor to make Runestone home to you,” he promises. “Your lady-in-waiting, Lady Poole, has already written out detailed instructions for furnishing and arranging your chambers.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open. “Jeyne did that?”

“I asked her,” he admits. “I want you to feel at home at Runestone.”

She smiles up at him. “You are thoughtful.”

He kisses her hand. “Well. Until we meet again, my lady.”

He takes Sansa back to the others, where he helps her onto her horse. The northerners ride out, but not before Sansa throws one last look at Ser Andar. 

She’s actually going to miss him.


	61. THEON XV

Maester Luwin enters the chamber with a bow. “A raven from your mother, Your Grace; she and Lady Sansa have left the Gates of the Moon and are on their way back home. Lady Sansa is to marry Ser Andar Royce of Runestone.”

“Oh. Good.” Rickon looks uncertain. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s very good, Your Grace; Ser Andar is Lord Yohn Royce’s only remaining son and heir. I have heard he is a most gallant young man.”

Rickon’s face clears. “Good. Thank you, Maester Luwin.”

The maester bows and leaves Rickon and Theon. Rickon has a sullen look on his face as he moves his tiles over the cyvasse board.

“The news displeases you?” Theon asks.

“I know Sansa must marry,” Rickon says slowly. “But...I wish she didn’t have to go live so far away. Winterfell is her home.”

“Your mother left her home to be with her husband,” Theon points out. “Lady Lyanna will do the same for you.”

“Yes, but she’ll still be in the North,” Rickon argues. “And my mother loved my father.”

“Not when she married him. They were strangers when they wed.”

Rickon considers this. “So maybe Sansa will love her husband.”

“Gods be good.”

“Arya will have to marry too,” he continues. “What if she has to go even further south? What if she goes to Dorne?”

“Arya would love Dorne,” Theon says, and it’s true; he can imagine no better place for the younger Stark daughter. 

“But I’d never see her again.”

“You will see your sisters from time to time,” Theon promises. “Runestone isn’t so far from here, and even Dorne is not an impossible distance from Winterfell. Besides, you know Arya would never let a man keep her from her family.”

Rickon smiles. “That’s true.”

“All will be as it should, Your Grace.”

Rickon hesitates. “Do you think Lady Lyanna will be happy here?”

“I think so,” Theon says truthfully. “So long as you are good to her. You must treat her kindly, heed her counsel, and do not dishonor her by taking a mistress.”

Rickon gives him a sidelong glance. “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me, Your Grace?”

“That you cannot take a wife.”

Theon considers it. “No. I never really wanted to marry. And my love and loyalty are all to you, Your Grace.”

“What if you fall in love with someone?”

Theon thinks of dark hair and dark eyes. “It doesn’t matter. This is the life I chose.”

“What about Jeyne?”

“What about her?” he asks, perhaps a touch too sharply.

“You like her,” Rickon accuses.

“We’re friends.”

“You like her more than a friend.”

Theon clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter. She’s going with your sister to the Vale, and my place is here, with you.”

Rickon slumps in his seat. “It’s not fair. When I have daughters, I’m never sending them away.”

“When you have daughters, you’ll have a different outlook,” Theon says gently. “You’ll need to make alliances and secure the loyalty of your bannermen. Old grudges can be mended with a marriage.”

“We don’t have a grudge with the Royces of Runestone!” Rickon bursts, looking angry. In the corner, Shaggydog lifts his head, growling. “We don’t have a grudge with anyone in the Vale! Why can’t Sansa stay here? Why does everyone have to leave?!”

Shaggydog rises up, barking. 

_ Poor Rickon, _ Theon thinks sadly. His mother, his father, Sansa, Arya, Jon, Robb. Even Bran had left him. And now that he has what’s left of his family back, his sisters are being married off and it’ll be just him and his mother in Winterfell. 

“You are the King,” he says gently. “If you truly wish Sansa to stay here, it is your right to command it.”

Rickon looks surprised--and then deflates. “No. Mother wants her to marry,” he says sullenly. 

“She will still visit, and write to you often. Runestone is not so very far away from White Harbor, and then it’s only a short ride to Winterfell. And there will be weddings and tourneys and celebrations all over the realm where you may see each other.”

Rickon reaches down, scratching Shaggydog behind the ears. The direwolf has calmed down with his master, and now his pink tongue rolls out of his mouth as he receives attention. 

“As long as she’s happy,” Rickon decides at last. “But if her husband makes her unhappy, I want her to come back here.”

“As do I, Your Grace.” 

In truth, Theon has thought often of Sansa’s marriage. It would have been ideal if she had married Lord Karstark, but after that business with his squire, there had been no question of it. He had suggested Lord Cerwyn once or twice, hoping she would be only half a day’s ride away, but Lady Catelyn seemed to think Lord Cerwyn was beneath Sansa.

_ And a Royce of Runestone is not? _

The Royces are an old and noble house, and Lord Royce himself is courteous and gallant and a good man. Theon has no doubt that Sansa will be happy there, or at least, not unhappy. But she is a princess of the North, and Ser Andar Royce is a knight of the south. She deserves better.

Selfishly, unwillingly, he can’t help lamenting that Jeyne will be so far away. They are friends, it’s true, but they are also so much more than that. Not lovers, but there is a kind of love between them. He cares for her, and he knows she cares for him. 

But it was never meant to be. He is a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to be always at his king’s side, and she is loyal to Sansa, who was always going to marry and leave Winterfell. Even if that wasn’t the case, who can say if she’d ever want to be with him? Liking him is one thing, but to make a life with him?

_ I couldn’t make her happy anyway, _ he reflects sadly.  _ I could never make a woman happy. She deserves better than the likes of me.  _


	62. CERSEI III

She’s taking an afternoon nap when shouting in the courtyard below rouses her. She sits up, blinking. It takes her a long moment to realize that the shouting she hears is real and not part of a dream. 

“Ser Gregor,” she calls, going to the window. 

But Ser Gregor is already in the courtyard, surrounded by four young women and one young man. Dornish, if their apparel is anything to go by. What would Dornishmen be doing here…

Cersei’s hands grip the windowsill. “Myrcella!” she calls into the house behind her, feeling frantic. “Myrcella, where are you?”

There is no answer, nor had she expected there to be. She runs out of her room and down the hall. Myrcella’s room is empty, as is Tommen’s.

“ _ No _ !” she shrieks. All of her careful planning, all of her secrecy, all the silence she bought with gold...none of it matters. 

A deep, guttural cry comes from the courtyard below, and when she looks out the window, she sees Ser Gregor on his knees.

“This is for our father!” one of the women screams, driving her spear into his back.

“This is for Elia Martell!” another one shouts, driving her spear into his chest.

Cersei runs back into the house, shouting for Bronn and Qyburn. How anyone overpowered the Mountain is beyond her, but she imagines that, like their father, Oberyn Martell’s bastard daughters defeated him through sheer determination. But will it be enough? Or will Ser Gregor rise again and crush them like he crushed their father?

“Qyburn!” she shouts, running into his study.

He’s there, but one look at his wide eyes and the blood running from his throat tells her he will be of no help. 

“You traitorous  _ bastard _ ,” she hisses.

Bronn cleans his blade on Qyburn’s robe. “Aye. I am. Got a better offer from Prince Trystane.”

“Where are my children?” she demands.

Bronn points with his knife. She runs down the corridor, heart pounding. “Myrcella! Tommen! Don’t go!”

Her children stand in the entry hall, defiant looks on their faces. Myrcella holds Tommen’s hand, and though they are grown, they still seem to her like those little children she once knew. She reaches for them, but they recoil at her touch.

“Please,” she whispers.

“You can’t keep us trapped here like birds in a cage,” Myrcella says fiercely. “We aren’t children anymore.”

“You are  _ my _ children,” she tries to tell them, but Myrcella is shaking her head. 

“I’m to marry Prince Trystane. Tommen has already been married, but you killed his wife when you destroyed King’s Landing.”

There are tears running down Tommen’s face, she sees now.

“I did it to protect you,” Cersei says, her voice heavy, but they do not relent at her words.

“You murdered a million people in cold blood, Mother. That isn’t protecting us,” Myrcella snaps. She’s trembling with rage, and for the first time in her life, Cersei is actually afraid of her daughter. 

“Myrcella, please…” She reaches for her, but Myrcella slaps her hands away.

A blind rage seizes Cersei. The Martells, Bronn, Qyburn, her own  _ children _ …

She grabs Myrcella, meaning to haul her back upstairs and lock her in her room, but Myrcella is slippery as an eel, thrashing in her grip and screaming. She pries at the fingers wrapped around her, shouting and slapping, but Cersei will not relent. She cannot. 

“Let go of her!” Tommen is shouting, tugging at his mother’s arms, but she will not let go,  _ cannot _ let go, not when the enemy is at her door, waiting to take her children away from her forever. She’ll fight for them. She’ll do anything to keep them here. 

Tommen finally lets go, allowing her room to drag Myrcella down the corridor. 

“Let  _ go _ !” Myrcella shrieks. 

Dimly, Cersei realizes that she has a handful of Myrcella’s beautiful golden hair. Some part of her fears herself.

_ I am a lioness of the rock. I fear nothing. Not even myself. _

Something crashes into her side, knocking her onto the ground. It’s Tommen, she realizes dimly. Her baby boy, throwing his mother to the ground.

But he doesn’t stop there; he climbs on top of her, wrapping his hands around her throat. 

“Leave us alone!” he screams, tears streaming down his face. 

“Tommen,” she tries to say, prying at his hands, but his grip is surprisingly strong. Her boy, her baby boy, her youngest son…

_ Youngest son. _

_ “And when your tears have drowned you, the  _ valonqar  _ shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.” _

Her boy, her sweet boy; was it him all along? Not Tyrion, not  _ her _ little brother,  _ a _ little brother.

“Tommen,” she tries to say again, but there is no sound coming from her throat, no noise at all. Blackness seeps in through the corners of her eyes, and she knows that this is the end.

  
  



	63. ARYA XII

Arya is glad to have her mother and sister home. As much as she enjoyed the free reign under Rickon, she can’t talk to him the way she can talk to her mother and Sansa. 

_ Not for much longer, though. _

Sansa is marrying Ser Andar Royce of Runestone, a perfectly respectable man with a perfectly respectable family. It’s exactly the kind of marriage Lady Catelyn was hoping for...but Arya can’t help feeling disappointed.

After being apart from her sister for so long, now she has to say goodbye to her again? So Sansa can marry some knight from the Vale? When will Arya see her again? At her own wedding?

_ Gods, my own wedding. _

Her mother hasn’t said anything yet, but Arya just knows that a marriage is coming for her. Now that Rickon is betrothed and Sansa’s own wedding is in a few short months, Arya will be expected to make a match soon. The thought fills her with dread. 

Perhaps she could marry Edric Dayne. He was always kind to her. And Starfall is a great house with a great reputation. But she’d be so far from Winterfell if she went to live there; she’d even be far from Sansa and the Vale, and she doesn’t want that. 

Maybe she could marry Lord Cerwyn and be half a day’s ride from Winterfell. She isn’t expected to marry  _ quite _ as well as Sansa, and Ser Andar is only a knight; surely Lord Cerwyn would be an acceptable match?

She hates thinking about this sort of thing. Marriage. She used to laugh at Sansa for thinking so much about it, but now that it’s fast becoming a reality, she doesn’t find any humor in it. 

“Do you love him?” she asks her sister, watching Sansa and Jeyne unpack.

“Ser Andar?” Sansa shrugs. “No. But I imagine I will.”

“Do you  _ like _ him?”

“Yes. He’s very kind.” 

“Is that all?”

Sansa gives her an exasperated sort of look. “He’s kind, and handsome, and charming, and he wants to make me happy. That’s enough.”

Arya bites her lip. “Will he? Make you happy?”

Something flickers in Sansa’s eyes. “Let’s hope so.” She sits on the bed, patting the space beside her. Arya takes it, trying not to fidget too much. “Are you worried for me?”

“Yes,” Arya says without hesitation. “What if he’s cruel to you? What if I never see you again?”

“You will see me again,” Sansa assures her. “And if he’s cruel to me, I’ll come back to Winterfell.”

“What if he won’t let you?”

Sansa touches her cheek. “He’s not Joffrey.”

“But what if he is? What if he’s only kind to you now and turns cruel once you’re married?”

“I’ll kill him,” Jeyne says simply. “If Grey Wind doesn’t get to him first.”

Arya considers this. Having a direwolf present  _ will _ be a deterrent, and Ser Andar is unlikely to treat her sister ill with the creature always lurking around. But. Still.

“You can come visit me anytime you like,” Sansa tells her. “And I’ll visit Winterfell when I can.”

“What if I’m not here? Mother will want me to marry a lord, too.”

“We’ll see each other,” Sansa promises. “Wherever you are, I’ll find a way to see you, and you’ll find a way to see me. Our children will be friends.”

“I don’t want to get married,” Arya confesses. “I don’t want to go somewhere surrounded by strangers and marry one of them. I’d have to give up my Stark name.”

“You will always be a Stark. No one can ever take that away from you.”

Arya leans her head against Sansa’s shoulder. “Who do you think she’ll make me marry?”

“Maybe one of the lords of the Reach. Or a Northerner.”

“What about a Dayne of Starfall?”

Sansa snorts. “Not likely.”

“Why? I know Lord Edric Dayne.”

“How do you know Lord Edric Dayne?”

Before Arya can tell her, however, a serving maid enters the room and curtsies. “Pardon, my ladies, but Lady Karstark is below; she has requested a private audience with the royal family. She said it was most urgent.” 

The two sisters look at each other. 

“Lady Karstark? Alone?”

“There is a...wildling with her, my lady.”

They exchange another look. 

“Has the king been told?”

“Yes, my lady, and your mother.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, dismissing the maid. She stands up, smoothing her dress. “Well, let’s go see what brings Lady Karstark here.”

Arya, Sansa, and Jeyne head down to the great hall, where Rickon, Lady Catelyn, Theon, Brienne, and Maester Luwin are already seated. Once Arya and Sansa are seated, Brienne opens the door and lets Alys Karstark and a wildling into the room. Arya recognizes the markings on his face; he is one of the Thenns, considered one of the most savage and bloodthirsty of the wildling tribes. She’s even heard it said that they eat human flesh. 

“Lady Karstark,” Rickon greets. “What brings you here?”

“I seek your protection, Your Grace,” she says, surprising them all. “This is Styr; he is the Magnar of Thenn and the leader of his people.”

“Well met, Styr, Magnar of Thenn,” Rickon says courteously.

“And you,” Styr says in a thick accent.

Alys straightens her back, lifting her chin. “Styr and I wish to wed, but my brother has sworn he’d sooner see me dead than married to a wildling. I came here to seek Your Grace’s protection and blessing.”

Rickon is at a loss, but he’s not the only one; all of the Starks share furtive looks.

“Your brother is Lord of Karhold,” Catelyn says slowly. “It is his protection and blessing you ought to seek.”

“Lady Stark, he threatened to kill Styr and me if we did not stop seeing each other,” Alys says haughtily. “How can I seek the protection and blessing of such a man, even if he is my brother? It is my uncle, you will remember, who tried to marry me to his son and kill my brother. Treachery is contagious in my family, it seems.”

“He ought not to threaten you,” Rickon says firmly. “Maester Luwin, send a raven to Lord Karstark and invite him to come here that we may talk. Perhaps the matter can be easily resolved.”

“At once, Your Grace,” Maester Luwin says with a nod. 

“In the meantime, you are welcome here at Winterfell,” Rickon continues. “You shall be my honored guests, and no harm shall come to you under my roof.”

Alys curtsies. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Rickon sends for bread and salt, to swear his protection and hospitality to Alys Karstark and Styr. Thus given guest right, the steward finds rooms for them while the Starks discuss this development.

“Lord Karstark will not be easy to negotiate with,” Catelyn warns. “Lady Karstark is his only heir, and if he dies without siring children, Karhold will pass to her. Perhaps if he was already married, it would be one thing, but with Karhold in danger of passing to a wildling…”

“That’s his fault for not having gotten married,” Arya says stubbornly. “She should be allowed to marry Styr, and if he doesn’t like it, he should take a wife and have children of his own.”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid. He may fear that Styr will kill him in his sleep before that can happen.”

“We will wait until Lord Karstark arrives before we decide anything,” Rickon says firmly. “Perhaps we can reach an agreement that makes both Karstarks happy.”

Catelyn inclines her head. “Very good.”

_ Lord Karstark ought to take a wife, _ Arya thinks as she climbs the stairs to her room.  _ And I need a husband.  _

 

She’d be in the North. If things worked out with Alys, they could live at Karhold together. Arya could see her mother and Rickon whenever she wanted, and she could even see Sansa within reason. True, she barely knows Lord Karstark, and she doesn’t like that he threatened his own sister, but perhaps he would be good to her, to his king’s sister. 

And if not…

Well. She may not have Needle anymore, but she still knows how to stick ‘em with the pointy end.

 


	64. ARYA XII

Listen I fucked up and posted chapter 63 twice in a row but I didn't realize until it was too late and I can't go back and fix it because I wrote a sexy interlude to coincide with chapter 69 so just skip over this k


	65. MYRCELLA II

“Your brother worries me.”

Myrcella turns over, looking at Trystane. “What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t spoken a word since we left,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “He just stares at the sea like he wants to jump in.”

“He probably does.” Poor Tommen. Her sweet little brother has gone through more than any person ought to. She still can’t believe he strangled their mother, nor does she blame him; Myrcella was only her captive for a short time, but Tommen’s been her prisoner his whole life. How trapped had he felt behind the manse’s walls? How often had he dreamed of escaping?

She tells herself that he killed their mother to protect his sister. She was hurting Myrcella, and had clearly gone mad, and his protective instincts took over. That’s what she tells herself. Because imagining that he’d wanted to do it all along…

That isn’t an option.

She hasn’t said anything to Trystane or his cousins. When they’d asked about her mother, she’d simply said, “She’s dead.” No one had asked any questions.

Trystane had given Bronn an inordinate amount of gold and jewels before taking Myrcella and Tommen to his ship. He’d brought a septon with him, and Myrcella and Trystane were wed that very day. His father and sister won’t approve, she knows, but she doesn’t care, and neither does Trystane. He is Doran Martell’s only surviving son, and familial love means more to the Dornish than most. He will forgive Trystane in time. 

But in the meantime, what are they to do with Tommen? He will never be safe if his identity is revealed. People will want him to go back to Essos, or worse, they’ll want him dead. It’s one thing that Myrcella is still alive; she was in Dorne and innocent of her mother’s crimes. But Tommen went with his mother to Pentos, and not everyone is going to believe that he was taken against his will. 

Poor little Tommen.

She’d always assumed Tommen would be like their uncle Renly, or Tyrion; the youngest son, living happily in his siblings’ shadow where no one wants anything from him. Instead he’d become king and had to watch everyone he cared about disappear--including his own mother. Myrcella is all he has now--but what will that be worth in a life of hiding?

Trystane props his head on his hand. “What can I do for him?”

She strokes his cheek. “I’ll speak to him.”

“He is my brother now,” he says, kissing her hand. “I will do all I can for him.”

She smiles. “I love you, Trystane.”

“And I love you.” 

.

She finds Tommen on the deck, staring at the sea just as he has every day of their voyage. Even at night, he does nothing but stand by the railing, staring into the inky black water.

“Are you alright?” she asks, standing beside him. 

“How can I be?” he asks so softly that she barely hears him.

“You did what you had to do,” she says just as softly. “There’s no shame in that.” 

“I killed my own mother,” he whispers. “What could be more shameful than that?”

She takes him by the shoulders. “She was a cruel woman, Tommen. Look what she did to King’s Landing.”

“She did it because she loves us.” His voice cracks, and she knows that he doesn’t really believe it. 

“That isn’t love, Tommen. You know it. I know it. She knew it.”

Tears stream down his face. “Still.”

“She wanted to keep us prisoners for the rest of our lives.” She takes him in her arms, rubbing his back. “She was hurting me. You saved me.”

He doesn’t say anything, just trembles in her arms. A long time passes before he pulls back, wiping his eyes. “I’m glad you were able to reach out to Trystane,” he sniffles. “He seems like a good person.”

“He is. He wants to help you, you know.” She takes her brother’s hands. “What can we do? How can we make you happy again?”

Tommen takes a deep breath. “I want to join the Faith.”

She looks at him in surprise. “You wish to become a septon?”

He nods. “I have been given more than I deserve. I want to give back, and devote my life to the Seven.”

“That is noble of you.” She touches his cheek. “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

He gives her a small, wavering smile, and it all but breaks Myrcella’s heart.

  
  



	66. JEYNE XII

Lord Karstark arrives at Winterfell in a fury.

He thunders up to the gates with his own men behind him and roars to all those in the yard that he wants to see the king-- _ now _ . 

It takes a long time to calm him down enough to meet with Rickon. The Starks, Jeyne, Theon, Brienne, Maester Luwin, Alys Karstark, and Styr all gather in the hall and patiently await as Lord Karstark is brought in--carefully flanked by Stark soldiers. 

Lord Karstark does not so much as offer a greeting before launching into a tirade.

“Your Grace, I demand that my sister be returned to me that I may deal with her as, being her lord and brother, I ought. This is a trifling matter that she should never have brought to your attention.”

“Your sister feared for her life, Lord Karstark,” Rickon says coolly. “As my subject, it is my responsibility to protect her, especially when her lord and brother will not.”

Lord Karstark’s face reddens. “She has no cause to fear for her life.”

“You told her you would sooner see her dead than married to Styr,” Sansa points out. 

“That was not a threat, my lady. I misspoke.”

“Why do you object to Styr, my lord?” Rickon asks.

Lord Karstark makes a guttural noise. “Why not? He’s a wildling--and a Thenn, at that. They’re the most bloodthirsty of the lot. They carve their faces and eat human flesh.”

“Story only,” Styr insists. 

Lord Karstark points at him. “I don’t need to hear anymore from  _ you _ . You’ve been sniffing around my sister for too long now. She’s going to marry a highborn lord of the North, not a bloody  _ Thenn _ .”

“Styr is the Magnar of Thenn; a great responsibility among his people,” Rickon says reasonably. “He is, in a sense, a lord among the Free Folk.”

“The  _ Free Folk _ ,” Karstark sneers. “They’re wildlings, invading our land and raping our women.”

“Who are these women being raped, my lord?” Catelyn asks.

Karstark stares at her, and then he does something very strange. 

He starts to laugh.

“I see how it is. It was not enough to take my father and my squire from me, now you must take my sister and my dignity as well.”

Jeyne freezes. So he knows about Wyl. Or he suspects, at the very least. 

“Your father was a confessed traitor, my lord,” Catelyn says hotly. “As for your squire, that was very unfortunate, but no one in this room had anything to do with it.”

“Didn’t they?” he asks, and he looks straight at Jeyne.

Time seems to stop.  _ He knows he knows he knows. _

“Because you see, I had it from one of the other lads that Lady Sansa’s slut of a maid was seen with him the night he died.”

“Don’t you dare call her that,” Sansa and Theon say sharply. Sansa gets up, going to her friend. “She had nothing to do with Wyl’s death.”

“Didn’t she?”

Jeyne starts trembling all over. It’s over now. She’ll have to confess her crimes, and Rickon and Lady Catelyn will be so disappointed in her, and Lord Karstark will want her head. Perhaps he’d settle for making her a Silent Sister...but the thought of those corpses and her never being allowed to speak…

“She didn’t.”

It’s Theon who steps forward, his face hard as stone. “She didn’t kill Wyl. I did.”

“No!” Jeyne shouts even as Rickon, Arya, and Catelyn startle in their seats. “Theon, don’t!”

“I killed him,” he says again. “And I would do it again if I had to.”

“Theon,” Catelyn says in surprise. “Why on earth did you kill him? And why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because Greyjoys are all liars and cravens,” Karstark growls.

“I kept the truth hidden to protect Jeyne.” Theon glances at her for a swift moment before turning back to Karstark. “I came across Wyl and Jeyne in the godswood. He was trying to rape her. I lost myself in my anger and struck him down. I swore I would never tell anyone to protect Jeyne’s reputation.”

“Is this true?” Catelyn asks, turning to look at Jeyne.

“It’s true,” Sansa says immediately. “Jeyne came to me in tears. She felt responsible. I had to give her sweetsleep to calm her down.”

“Oh, that’s convenient, isn’t it?” Karstark snarls. “My squire was a raper, was he?”

Jeyne, dumbfounded by these goings on, finally finds her voice. “He was,” she says hotly, breaking free of Sansa’s arms. “I kept telling him to stop, I tried to fight him, but he wouldn’t stop. He tried to rape me, and if it weren’t for Theon, he would have.” 

“Did he really try to rape you? Or were you just caught in the act and lied to protect your reputation?”

“How dare you!” Catelyn snaps, rising up. 

Theon loosens his sword in its sheath. “Take that back, my lord.”

“I’ll not suffer this!” Karstark roars. “You expect me to believe the word of a common slut?”

“Take it back,” Theon says again, louder. 

“Or what, Greyjoy?”

“Or you’ll answer for it with your blood.” Theon slides his sword out of its scabbard, the steel ringing in the hall.

“Theon!”

But Karstark pulls out his own sword. “If it’s a fight you want, it’s a fight you’ll get, you cur.” He swings his sword, and the fight begins.

Steel meets steel over and over, the two men shouting as they cross swords. Jeyne and Sansa clutch at one another, wide-eyed and terrified. Theon and Karstark are both  _ furious _ , their blades moving faster than they can keep up with. One of them is going to die.

When Karstark’s sword cuts Theon’s arm, Jeyne screams, watching in horror as blood pools through his shirt. It’s his left arm, thank the gods, and it only slows him for a moment before he advances on Karstark again, swinging and slashing and shouting. It lasts for what feels like hours, an endless dance of steel. 

And then, at last, Theon slashes at Karstark’s legs and brings him down to his knees with a grunt. He knocks the sword from Karstark’s hand and throws it across the hall, pointing his own blade at Karstark’s throat. The entire room seems to suck in its breath, all eyes on the two men. 

“Apologize,” Theon demands. 

“No.”

“Theon!” Catelyn says nervously. “Don’t kill him!”

“That’s right, Greyjoy; listen to your gaoler,” Karstark sneers. “That’s all you’ll ever be good for.”

“Apologize,” Theon says again, louder. “Apologize and walk away with your life.”

Karstark spits. “The day I apologize to the  _ Starks _ and their thrall is the day the Wall falls. Kill me, boy. Kill me and be cursed.”

Theon’s blade pierces the other man’s throat. A few strangled cries rise up, and then Karstark falls to the ground, his eyes glassy and unseeing.

The room is quiet for a long moment. Theon finally kneels, his sword still red with Karstark’s blood. “Your Grace, I beg your pardon for killing your bannerman in your hall.”

Rickon is at a loss for words. It’s Alys Karstark who responds. 

“No pardon is necessary, ser. My brother was belligerent and insulted his king and his household. You were only defending their honor.” There are tears in her eyes, but she stands strong. “Harrion was wrong to behave that way.”

Catelyn rubs her temple. “You are not upset, Lady Karstark?”

“I grieve my brother’s passing, but he brought it upon himself. I sought King Rickon’s protection from my brother, and I have been granted that. My brother is no longer a threat.” Her voice catches on a sob, and she turns to bury her face in Styr’s chest. He wraps his arms protectively around her. 

“She’s right,” Rickon says at last. “Lord Karstark threatened his sister and insulted Lady Poole and Ser Theon. He drew his sword of his own will and chose death when he was offered mercy. There is no pardon to be given, Theon, because you did nothing wrong.”

“I lied about the squire, Your Grace,” Theon says softly. 

_ Yes, you lied about him, _ Jeyne thinks.  _ You lied to protect me, and I will never forget it as long as I live. _

“You lied to protect Lady Poole,” Rickon corrects. “Does anyone in this room feel dissatisfied with Theon’s conduct?”

No one says anything. 

“Lady Karstark?”

Alys looks up, shaking her head. “No, Your Grace. I am content.”

“As am I.” Rickon rises, putting an end to any further discussion. “Maester Luwin, will you see to it that Lord Karstark’s body is taken care of?”

“At once, Your Grace.”

“And see to that wound on Theon’s arm,” Catelyn adds. 

“I can see to it, my lady,” Jeyne says quickly. There’s so much she wants to say to Theon, so much she wants to understand. 

Catelyn gives her a wry look. “Very well.”

Jeyne fights off a blush as she follows Theon out of the hall. Neither one of them say a word to each other. Even when they reach his room and he closes the door, the silence between them is so  _ loud _ . They just stand there for a few moments, unable to look each other in the eye but somehow unable to look anywhere but at each other.

Jeyne licks her lips. “Theon…”

A knock at the door startles them. 

“Come in,” Theon calls. 

A serving maid enters, bearing a basket of linens and vials. “Maester Luwin asked me to bring these.”

“Thank you, Jenny,” Jeyne says, relieved. She takes the basket and closes the door behind the maid. “Well, let’s see it, then.”

Like something out of a dream, Theon starts undressing, peeling away layer after layer until his top half is bare. She fights off another blush, trying to maintain a businesslike determination. “Sit down.”

He does, sitting on the edge of his bed. She takes the basin of water from his table and dips a cloth in it, coming over to clean the wound. It’s a big gash, and though she knows little of medicine, she feels certain it’ll need stitches if it’s to heal. She cleans away as much blood as she can, then sets aside the basin and reaches for the needle and thread.

“This will hurt,” she warns, threading the eye. Theon tenses, releasing a hiss when her needle pierces his skin. It makes her stomach turn, but she presses on, pretending his flesh is just a rough cloth. She’s good at sewing, everyone says so. Is this really that different from her embroidery?

Once she has a rhythm and feels confident she’s not going to throw up, she asks him the question she’s been dying to ask for a while now.

“Why did you lie?”

Through gritted teeth, he tells her, “To protect you.”

“But  _ why _ ?”

“Because I care about you,” he grunts. 

Her heart pounds in her chest. “You put yourself in danger. Karstark could’ve killed you.”

“He could’ve,” he agrees.

“You would’ve died because of me.”

“It was my choice to lie.”

Seeing no other way, she cuts the thread with her teeth and then washes her hands in the basin. She reaches next for the bandages, which she wraps firmly around his arm. “There. That should hold.” She sits back. “Unless I’ve botched it horribly and Maester Luwin has to take the whole arm.”

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically.

She bites her lip. “Theon, why did you really do it?”

He sighs, looking away from her. “I told you. I care about you.”

“Yes but--”

“I  _ love _ you,” he mumbles.

She stares at him. “As...as a friend.”

“No.” He rubs his head, sighing again. “I am in love with you.”

She can hardly believe the words she’s hearing. Theon, in love with  _ her _ ? After so much time spent pining over him and knowing she could never have him, he’s suddenly killed a man because he  _ loves _ her?

“I don’t want anything from you,” he goes on, still not looking at her. “I won’t...do anything. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says at once.

He does look at her at that. “No?”

“No,” she confirms. “I...Theon, you know I’ve been in love with you for a long time now.”

There’s a hopeful look in his eyes. “I’d thought maybe you...I don’t know. Changed your mind.”

She shakes her head. “No. I stopped hoping is all.”

“What about Wyl?”

She shakes her head again. “Like I said, I’d stopped hoping. I liked him, but I never considered it to be more than a flirtation.”

He expels a sigh of relief. “Oh.”

“Theon?” 

“Mm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

He smiles. “Come here.”

She scoots closer until her thigh is pressed against his. She’s nervous, but Theon cups her head in his hands and presses his lips to hers. His kiss is sweet as Arbor gold, and it makes her nearly as drunk. She kisses him for a long time, chasing after his every touch, sighing when it feels just right. 

Through the pleasant fog in her brain, one thought becomes clear:

_ Finally. _

  
  



	67. ROS III

“Tommen and Myrcella are in Dorne, then?”

“They are,” Bronn confirms, holding out his cup for more wine. “Or on the way, at least.” 

“And Cersei?” 

“Dead,” he replies cheerfully. “As is her maester and Gregor Clegane. Those girls cut off his bloody head as a prize.”

“Good for them,” Ros says with feeling. “So, where will you go now? Since I assume they didn’t offer to take you with them?”

“Prince Trystane told me he doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me,” he says in that same cheerful voice. “Smart lad. No, I’ve decided to go east. Lord Tyrion will be happy to see me.” He points his cup at her. “He’d be happy to see you, too.”

“Yes, I’ve never known him to turn down a whore.”

“Well, yes, but he knows you. He likes you. He could make things happen for you.”

“That’s what all men say.”

“True,” he allows. “But he’s with the dragon queen now. Supposedly. Hard to tell with these Pentoshi accents. But I  _ think _ that’s what they’re saying.”

“And what, you think she’ll actually make it back to Westeros?” Ros snorts.

“Why not? She has dragons.”

“Supposedly.”

“Supposedly,” he allows. “She has Unsullied. Supposedly. You have to admit, her chances are good. She may well take back the Seven Kingdoms.”

“She may. But why should I worry about that? I have quite a nice life here, in case you haven’t noticed. I own my own pleasure house, and I’ll be able to retire young and spend the rest of my life doing whatever I want.” She swirls the wine in her cup. “Besides, I’ve just had word from a friend; I’ve got a wedding to go to.”

“Have it your way. When I’m living large as the wealthiest lord in Westeros and you need a favor from your old friend Bronn, just remember that I offered.”

She raises her cup. “To Bronn...the wealthiest lord in Westeros.”

He taps his cup to hers.

  
  



	68. SANSA XIII

“Where have you been?” Sansa demands upon seeing Jeyne.

The other woman blushes as she closes the door behind her. “I was with Theon.”

It only takes Sansa a moment to realize why Jeyne was late, and why her hair is so tousled and her lips so swollen.

“ _ With _ him?!”

“Not like that!” Jeyne yelps, red-faced. “We just...talked.”

“Just talked?” Sansa asks skeptically.

“Alright, we did some kissing. A lot of kissing.” Jeyne touches her lips, a smile on her face. “He loves me, Sansa.”

Before today, Sansa would not have been sure what to make of this--but after seeing Theon come to Jeyne’s defense earlier, she believes it. He didn’t have to lie to protect Jeyne, but he did. He didn’t have to challenge Lord Karstark with his sword, but he did. 

Could it be? She still remembers that night in the godswood, when Jeyne had had too much to drink and chased after Theon and the serving maid. She’d been little more than a heartbroken girl then. Now…now, she is a woman grown, and he loves her. 

“But...he’s in the Kingsguard,” Sansa points out hesitantly. “And you’re...you’re still coming to the Vale with me, aren’t you?” 

“Of course,” Jeyne hastens to assure her. “We aren’t going to...elope or anything. But even knights of the Kingsguard can fall in love, they just can’t father children.”

That is true; Kingsguard have fallen in love before, and their was always a chaste love. Or at least, it was supposed to be. Theon and Jeyne can love one another from afar.

But is that enough? 

“What happened after I left?” Jeyne asks. “With Lady Alys and Styr and everything.”

“They’re going to take Lord Karstark’s body home and then marry after an appropriate amount of time,” Sansa says, sitting on her bed. “She is to inherit Karhold in its entirety.”

“Good for her.”

Sansa peers at her friend. “Are you alright? After...that?”

Jeyne sighs, sitting beside her friend. “I don’t know. I suppose so. I was so frightened at the time, and I really thought...I don’t know. I was afraid I’d be punished somehow.”

“No one’s going to punish you,” Sansa swears, wrapping an arm around her friend. “Mother feels horrible, and she and Arya are both furious on your behalf. So is Rickon; he was nearly in tears, he was so upset. They care about you.”

“That is kind of them,” Jeyne says softly. “Do you think...they believe Theon?”

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t. And there’s some truth to it; Wyl  _ was _ trying to rape you. There was nothing dishonorable in defending yourself.”

“I just feel so stupid. I should’ve seen it coming. I shouldn’t have been alone with him.”

Sansa takes her chin, making Jeyne look at her. “You couldn’t have known. And you shouldn’t have gone into it expecting he’d be a raper.”

“I know, but...after everything, you’d think I’d be more careful.”

“You are  _ not to blame, _ ” Sansa emphasizes. “You must believe that.”

Jeyne looks away. “I suppose.”

Sansa tackles her onto the bed. “I am your princess and I command you to stop wallowing.”

“Ow, fine!” Jeyne yelps.

Grey Wind leaps onto the bed, eager to be part of the fun. He’s so much bigger than the women that he crushes them, and Sansa and Jeyne scream with laughter as they struggle to get out from beneath the oversized puppy. 

.

Lady Alys and Styr return to Karhold in the morning with her brother’s body. Word of his death will be spreading to the rest of the North soon. Sansa is sure that it will stir some resentment; with Alys’s marriage to a wildling, Karhold and all that comes with it will pass to her husband. The Northerners fear outsiders, and wildlings rumored to eat human flesh invoke more fear than most. They’ll not like that. 

In the meantime, Sansa prepares for her own wedding. She and Jeyne spend hours making new dresses--the style in the Vale is very different from the North, and Sansa wants to fit in with her new home. Personally, she likes the Vale style, with slitted sleeves and flowing capes, fabric bunched tight against the bodice. They will flatter her more than the Northern style ever did. Not that the Northern style is flattering on anyone; the many layers and coarse, thick material is designed to keep the wearer warm rather than appeal to any aesthetic. 

Sansa’s favorite dress to make is her wedding dress. Though she will be wed in Runestone’s sept, she plans to hold to the Northern tradition of wearing white at her wedding. Her dress will be white silk cut in the Vale fashion, and on its hem will be embroidered a grey and white direwolf that looks just like Lady. 

“You shall be quite the loveliest bride in Westeros,” Jeyne praises. “You should wear a coronet, too, so everyone knows you to be a princess.”

Sansa likes that suggestion. She may be marrying a knight of Runestone, but she will always be Sansa Stark, Princess in the North. 

.

In a few weeks’ time, the Starks--and much of the rest of the North--head east to Karhold to witness the union between Alys Karstark and Styr, Magnar of Thenn. 

As Sansa suspected, many of the Northmen disapprove of the marriage. Though most of the lords come at Lady Alys’s invitation, a few do not; the Glovers are noticeably absent, as is Lord Manderly. There again, Lord Manderly does not often leave White Harbor; he is too large to sit a horse, and carrying a litter through the snow would make for a long and arduous journey. Instead, he has sent his son, Wylis, and Wylis’s two daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla. Wylla dyes her hair green in the Lysene fashion; it’s a point of contention for some of the Northerners, but Arya admires it, and immediately determines to make the youngest Manderly her friend.

“I think it may be dangerous, letting those two spend time together,” Wynafryd jokes. “Wylla has always been willful, and the last time I saw Lady Arya, she had to be carried from the hall, kicking and screaming.”

“That sounds like Arya,” Sansa says, smiling. 

“Your own wedding is soon, is it not, my lady?”

“It is,” Sansa confirms. 

“Your betrothed is a Royce of the Vale, is he not?”

“He is. Ser Andar, the heir of Runestone.”

“So far from the North,” Wynafryd says softly. “Ah well. I suppose it can’t be helped.”

Not for the first time, Sansa feels a pang at the thought of leaving the North. “No.”

“I was once promised to Rhaegar Frey, you know,” Wynafryd says conspiratorially. “But Grandfather finally came to his senses and said he wasn’t good enough for me. Can you imagine?  _ Me _ , living with all those Freys at the Twins?”

“I can’t,” Sansa says with a smile. “Arya was betrothed to Elmar Frey a long time ago. And my own brother Robb was to marry a Frey.”

“They seem to crop up everywhere, don’t they?” Wynafryd asks dryly. “Tell me, Lady Sansa, what think of you of Lady Karstark’s husband-to-be?”

“I know very little of him,” Sansa admits. “But Alys has a good head on her shoulders, and I don’t think she would marry Styr if she didn’t think he was a suitable match. They clearly love each other, and I’m sure Karhold and all its lands will be under Alys’s supervision, not his.”

“Few people see it that way.”

“They don’t like the wildlings.” Sansa takes a deep breath. “But my brother Jon believes that they mean us no harm, and indeed, we’ve heard no reports of wildlings attacking the Northmen.”

“Do you believe it?” Wynafryd asks softly. “That there’s evil beyond the Wall?”

Sansa hesitates. “I...find it hard to believe such things. But...Jon isn’t foolish or prone to fanciful ideas. He’s very stern and serious, and I find it hard to believe he would say something and not know it to be true.”

“Well, then...perhaps it’s a good thing you’re going so far south.”

.

Alys and Styr marry under the full moon. Under the cover of night, all the guests follow the lit path to the godswood, and under its red leaves, they watch Alys, all in white, take Styr, Magnar of Thenn, to be her husband. He does not put a cloak over her shoulders, nor does he remove one with her house’s sigil, which Sansa approves of; while it’s more than likely because the Thenns themselves don’t have any houses or sigils, it also shows the Northerners that Styr doesn’t mean to strip Alys of her Karstark name and thrust his wildling ways upon her. She will still be a Karstark, will still be the Lady of Karhold. Styr is only her husband, not her lord.

When they have named each other husband and wife, Styr lifts her easily into his arms and carries her back to the keep. There, the guests celebrate with a sumptuous feast. Music plays and people dance, and as the wind rattles the shutters, Sansa is glad for the roaring fire and pleasant company. She watches Jeyne dance with Theon, a smile on her face as she sees the obvious love both of them have for each other. They have been discreet in their...well, whatever it is they have, but Sansa has a feeling that Winterfell’s other inhabitants are starting to suspect something. Well, let them. Jeyne and Theon aren’t doing anything wrong, and besides, it won’t be long now before Sansa and Jeyne go to the Vale. Let them have their fun for now. 

Sometimes she’s struck by the irony of it all; she’s being sent away from her family to marry a man she likes but does not yet love, and while Jeyne has found love, she will soon lose it to serve at Sansa’s side. Some part of Sansa wants to offer to let Jeyne stay in Winterfell and be with Theon, but another, more selfish part of her knows that she’d be miserable in Runestone without her best friend. She may like Ser Andar, and hopefully even grow to love him, but she won’t be able to confide in him the way she can with Jeyne. 

It’s too bad there aren’t more members of the Kingsguard; then Theon could go to the Vale with them. 

“What are you thinking about?” Catelyn asks, interrupting Sansa’s train of thought. 

“Going to the Vale,” she says honestly.

Catelyn smiles. “Soon, now. How do you feel?”

“I feel alright.” Sansa hesitates. “A bit nervous.”

“All brides are nervous,” her mother assures her. “The Royces are good people, and you’ll have Jeyne with you.”

“I know.”

“I know you don’t want to leave home,” Catelyn says in a softer voice. “I don’t like sending you away either. But we can only make our house stronger through marriage.”

“I know.” And she does. She understands. It doesn’t make the situation any easier. 


	69. THEON XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the 69th chapter, so I had to have a smutty interlude.

It feels like no time at all before the Starks are ready to head south for Sansa’s wedding. Lady Catelyn has the castle in an uproar, trying to finalize preparations before they leave. Even Sansa and Jeyne are frantic, much to Rickon and Arya’s distress; the two younger Starks hide out in their rooms or go on long rides, anything to avoid their mother and sister’s nerves.

While Theon has to admit to a shade of amusement at the goings-on, he has to admit to frustration also. Jeyne has been too worked up the last fortnight to pay any attention to him. Well. Much. He understands, of course; as lady-in-waiting to Sansa, she has more work than any of them.

But. Still. She’s about to move permanently to the Vale, and that will severely limit the time they spend together.

Gods, the amount of time wasted between the two of them…

But how could he have known how things were going to end up? She was always Sansa’s  little friend, an infatuated child. He still remembers that night she’d had too much to drink and had chased him into the godswood, crying and sick to her stomach. He’d felt sorry for her then. It hadn’t been long after that that he’d sworn himself to Rickon’s Kingsguard. At the time, it had only seemed fitting. It still does. He’s risked his neck for the Starks more than once, and he will again. He hadn’t thought to marry; though the younger brother of a queen, he has no lands or titles, nothing to offer a wife. His good fortune is all thanks to the Starks; without them, he has nothing. 

But if he did have something--lands or titles, money that was his own--he could have married.  _ And do what? _ Live in a keep and make Jeyne his lady wife? Would she even say yes? She’s devoted to Sansa; if he asked her to marry him, she might say no in favor of serving Sansa. He would’ve followed them to the Vale, if that’s what it took. He could’ve been captain of Sansa’s guards, or her steward. Mayhap Ser Andar would’ve made him a knight, and Jeyne would be his.

It doesn’t matter now, though. He’s sworn his life to the Kingsguard, and he won’t let himself think about what if. He loves Jeyne, and she loves him, but they chose different paths. 

It doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy what time they have left together.

.

It’s the day before they leave for Runestone when he goes out to practice his archery. It calms him, and he needs calming with Lady Catelyn as up in arms as she is. 

“Planning to shoot anyone at the wedding?” 

He looks up, smiling as Jeyne comes towards him. “It would make for an interesting story.”

“I heard that the Dothraki believe a wedding without at least three deaths is a dull affair,” she supplies, standing beside him. 

“Good thing we’re not Dothraki.” He lowers his bow. “How are my Ladies Stark?”

“I’m fairly certain Lady Catelyn has some new grey hairs,” Jeyne says mildly. “Sansa’s cried twice already today.”

“And you?”

“Well, I was  _ going _ to hide in the garderobe, but Arya was already there.”

He laughs, twining his fingers with hers. They try to be more discreet in public, but he’s missed her, and he’s running out of opportunities to be alone with her. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much,” she says in a softer voice. 

“It’s alright. You were doing your duty.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you,” he says honestly. 

Jeyne takes the bow and arrow from him, nocking and loosing the arrow. It lands in the heart of the target, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him a little hard. 

“You’ve become quite skilled at that.”

“I had a good teacher.” She smiles at him. “But I don’t feel like I’m doing it right, could you correct my posture?”

He grins as he comes forward, pressing his chest to her back as he guides her. They’ve played this game before, where he holds her close and touches her under the guise of instructing her in archery. She doesn’t need instructing anymore, but he’s glad of any opportunity to touch her--especially when they’re in public. He wonders if anyone’s watching the way he presses against her now, the way he dips his head to smell her hair. One hand strokes her hip, and he’s not imagining the way her breath catches.

He’s careful with Jeyne, and knows he always must be. He doesn’t want to push her or make her uncomfortable, so he lets her lead their every interaction. All they’ve done is kiss, and he’s content to keep it that way if she is. It’s probably for the best; he’s sworn not to father any children, and though Jeyne is a smart girl, it wouldn’t do for him to go breaking his vows. 

She shifts against him now, and because he can feel the outline of her body through her clothes, he gets. Well. Hard. Er.

It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened around her, nor would it be the first time she’s brushed it, but she doesn’t jump or shy away. To his surprise and delight, she shifts again. Deliberately.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs in her ear.

“Nothing,” she says innocently. 

“Really? Because it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“I can’t feel anything at all,” she teases, squealing when he tickles her side. She turns in his arms, rising up on her toes to kiss him. 

“The Broken Tower,” she murmurs, and then pulls back, gliding out of the yard. 

He stares after her, dumbfounded, before shaking his head clear and tearing after her. She throws a smile over her shoulder and starts to run. He chases her into the Broken Tower and catches her on the stairs, pinning her against the wall. She smiles up at him, sighing contentedly when he kisses her. He lifts her in his arms, carrying her up the stairs and into one of the abandoned rooms. He sets her down to unclasp his cloak; laying it down on the ground, he sits atop it, urging her to join him. She does, shrugging out of her own cloak as she sits beside him.

“I don’t want to go to Runestone,” she admits softly.

“I don’t want you to go either.” He presses his forehead to hers. “We’ll see each other.”

“Not often enough.”

“No,” he agrees. “Not often enough.”

She tilts her head, searching for his lips. He cradles her head as he kisses her; soft at first, there’s a yearning in both of them that fills the room with heat. She climbs into his lap, straddling him as she deepens the kiss. Her core is pressed against him, pressed  _ there _ , and he knows she can feel him growing hard. She doesn’t shy away; if anything, she presses against him, making a small little moan as she does.

“Jeyne,” he murmurs. “What are you doing?”

“I...I want to feel you,” she says shyly. “Not... _ all _ of you. Not yet. But...more of you. And...I want you to feel more of me, too.”

This unexpected news sends all his blood rushing south. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “How...much more?”

In answer, she places his hand on her breast. Her other hand reaches in between them, cupping his cock. 

“Damn, woman,” he grunts, twitching at her touch. 

“Is that alright?” she asks nervously.

“Yes,” he hastens to assure her. 

“I’ve never...done it with my hand. Before,” she says, flushing. “But I could do it with...my mouth. If you want.”

He has to close his eyes again. “Do  _ you _ want to do it?”

Her hesitation is the only answer he needs. 

“Jeyne,” he says sternly--or as sternly as he’s able while her hand is on his cock. “I don’t want you to do things you don’t like doing.”

“I just want to make you happy,” she says softly.

“ _ You _ make me happy,” he assures her. “You don’t have to do anything.”

She smiles uncertainly. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.” He kisses her, stroking her jaw. She makes a small noise in her throat, and it occurs to him that she might want more. “Let me make  _ you _ happy,” he murmurs.

“You make me happy without doing anything,” she insists.

“Let me  _ please _ you, then.”

She looks shy, but not uncomfortable. “How?”

“With my tongue.”

She blushes. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

That makes her even redder. “You  _ want _ to?”

“I want to taste you.” And he does. He’s tasted his share of women before, and while that was more because it was so filthy and they squealed so sweetly when he did it, he finds he genuinely wants to know what Jeyne tastes like. That, and he wants to please her. He’s willing to bet she’s never been pleasured before, not by any man nor herself. The thought of him being the first to give this to her makes his cock twitch.

Still blushing, she nods. “Alright.”

“Lie down,” he urges.

She does, her breath coming sharp and quick as she lies back on his cloak. Slowly, he pushes her dress up her legs, pushing all the way until the fabric is bunched up around her hips. She still wears the knife he gave her in a garter, and he decides not to touch it. He moves aside her smallclothes, revealing her perfect pink center. Though she’s already wet, Jeyne lies stiff as a board on his cloak.

“Is this alright?” he asks, touching her lightly. 

She makes the sweetest mewling sound, her head bobbing quickly. “Mm-hmm.”

She’s still tense, but he can hardly blame her; the last time she was like this, a man was hurting her. How long will it be before she sees this as something to enjoy rather than to fear? Will she ever? 

He touches her slowly and softly, responding to her every sound and movement, and still he keeps asking if it feels alright, if she likes it, what does she want? 

When he lowers his lips to hers, the sound that comes out of her nearly makes him come then and there. He kisses and licks her slowly, grinning when she squirms against him. When his tongue swirls around her bud, her thighs clamp around his head. He wraps his hands around her thighs, stroking the soft skin there as he works her into a frenzy. Her hips buck against him, a desperation to her movements as she searches for relief. He slides one hand down and pushes a finger into her, groaning at the soft, wet heat inside. Jeyne makes a shuddering sound, her fingers tugging at his hair. 

He keeps kissing and licking her, sliding his finger in and out. She’s desperate to come and he knows it, but he draws it out for as long as he can. He wants her to enjoy it. 

“Theon,” she whines. “Theon,  _ please _ …”

He pushes a second finger inside her, crooking both digits. He feels her come apart, squeezing against him as she cries out. Her fingers bury themselves in his hair, tugging hard, but he doesn’t mind; he looks up at her, grinning against her as he sees her back arch. 

She goes limp after a long moment, breathing hard. He gives her cunt a chaste kiss before sitting up, licking her off of his fingers. She watches him with pupils blown wide, a pretty flush on her face and neck. 

“Well,” she says in a breathless attempt at boldness. “How do I taste?”

“Sweet,” he tells her, grinning when she flushes harder. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to…?”

“I’m sure.” He lays down beside her. “I’ve been taking care of myself since I was a boy; I’m quite good at it.”

“You’re good at taking care of me, too,” she murmurs. 

He kisses her, and if she minds that he still tastes of her, she doesn’t show it. 


	70. BRONN I

Bronn steps off the gangplank and takes a deep breath. “Smell that?” he asks no one in particular. 

“It smells like smoke,” Podrick says unhelpfully. 

“And what causes smoke?”

“...fire?”

“And what breathes fire?”

“Dragons?”

“That’s a smart lad.” Bronn tousles the lad’s hair. “We’re in the right place.”

“Or there was just a fire.”

“Nah. That’s dragon fire,” Bronn says confidently. “Come on now.”

Sighing, Podrick hefts their things, following Bronn up the docks and into the city proper.

Bronn’s never been to Slaver’s Bay before. He’d come close, once, but he doesn’t think that really counts.

The people of Meereen look at him strangely. Mistrustfully. He’s very obviously Westerosi, and he has a feeling that’s a rare sight here. 

Meereen is a beautiful city, though too close to the desert for his taste. The buildings are all made of stone, and looming over the rows of houses and stores are pyramids from which hang the black and red Targaryen banners. 

Before Bronn can begin to wonder how to ask for directions, ten Unsullied march towards him. He thinks madly of making a run for it, but that would never do; the Unsullied would certainly catch him. Instead, he hooks his thumbs in his belt and adopts an air of nonchalance. 

The Unsullied halt before him, their hard faces impassive. 

“Ser Bronn,” one of them says in heavily accented Common Tongue. “You and your squire are to come with us.”

Bronn opens his mouth to form a witty reply...and finds none at the ready. Somehow, he thinks wit might be lost on these blokes.

“Fine,” he says. “Pod, you heard the man.”

Podrick looks wary, but he and Bronn follow the Unsullied--who fan out around them, blocking them from any possible escape. 

How did they know he was coming? 

_ Varys, _ he realizes. The Spider’s little birds are everywhere, and if the rumors that he’s joined up with Daenerys Targaryen are true…

The Unsullied take them up into one of the pyramids. There are an ungodly amount of stairs, but Bronn has a feeling that asking to sit and catch his breath won’t do any good. He’s a sweating, panting mess by the time they go inside a chamber. The breeze feels amazing against his sweat-soaked skin, and he goes immediately to the window to better feel it. They are, he notices, very high up. 

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Bronn turns, eyes widening when he sees someone he’d not thought to see again.

“Fuck me up the arse,” he exclaims. “Shae!”

She comes forward with a smile. “Never thought you’d see me again, did you?”

“No,” he admits. 

“Lord Varys sent me to his Pentoshi friend. Illyrio. He treated me like a queen, and when Varys and Tyrion came east to find the dragon queen, I came with them.” She glides over to Podrick, kissing both his cheeks; the lad, already red-faced from walking up so many stairs, blushes furiously. “I’m so glad you’re both alright. When we heard about King’s Landing…”

“We were in Dorne when it happened,” Bronn says uneasily. He still doesn’t know who he can tell about Cersei. 

Shae sits down on one of the sofas. “Come. Sit. Have some wine.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Bronn pours himself a generous glass, taking the seat opposite Shae. Even Podrick helps himself, downing the liquid so quickly that he spills on his shirt.

“So, you’re with the dragon queen now, are you?”

Shae shrugs indifferently. “I’m with Tyrion, who happens to be with the dragon queen.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here too.”

She smiles. “You miss him?”

“Funnily enough, I do. My previous employer didn’t have his sense of humor. Didn’t pay as well, either.”

“I think you are a bigger whore than I ever was.”

“Probably. Except instead of men paying me to fuck them, they pay me to fuck over other people.”

“Someone say something about fucking?”

Bronn looks up and grins, because standing in the doorway is Tyrion Lannister himself. 

“I was telling Bronn he’s a whore,” Shae explains. 

“And  _ I _ was saying that instead of fucking people, I just fuck them over.”

“You certainly fucked me over,” Tyrion says wryly.

Bronn points an accusatory finger. “Oy. Listen here, Lannister. I served you well, but no amount of gold or riches could tempt me to go up against the Mountain. And I was right not to; we all saw what he did to Oberyn Martell. But I’m here now, and I’m ready to be your right hand man again. If you’ll let me,” he adds after a beat.

Tyrion tilts his head, looking at Bronn with a bemused expression. “You’re not going to abandon me again?”

“As long as I don’t have to fight the Mountain for you, aye...and seeing as how the Mountain’s dead, that won’t be a problem.”

Tyrion looks at Shae, both of them sharing a smile. 

“You came at a fortuitous time,” Tyrion says at last, turning back to Bronn. “Our queen has confiscated the remainder of Victarion Greyjoy’s fleet after his botched attempt to woo her. We sail for Westeros within the week.”

“Listen, funny man, do you want me as your bodyguard or not?” Bronn asks impatiently.

“Of course he does; why else you think he sent men to bring you here?” Shae snorts. 

Tyrion smiles. “Welcome back, old friend.”

  
  



	71. JEYNE XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, I'm in the middle of moving and life is crazy. Next chapter will probably also take a while.

The journey to Runestone is a long one. They go by ship, as Runestone is on the coast and much more accessible than the Kingsroad, but the winter seas are rough and the winds blow them off course more than once. Poor Sansa spends most of the voyage with her head in a bucket, heaving up the meager contents of her belly. 

“You’ll have to alter your dress if you lose much more weight,” Arya says unhelpfully.

Sansa is too busy retching to give her a dirty look.

Even Jeyne, who normally doesn’t get seasick, finds herself heaving more than once. She eats little and sucks on ginger roots to soothe her belly, but sometimes there’s no helping it. She’s horrified the first time she throws up in front of Theon, but it doesn’t appear to disgust him; later that night, he puts his head between her legs again. 

She hates that they started this...whatever it is, right before she had to leave Winterfell forever. They could have had more time together. But, she reminds herself, any time together is better than no time at all. At least now they know. And when they see each other in the future, whenever that may be, they can pick up where they left off. 

.

It’s a relief to finally reach Runestone.  Boats row them to the docks, where the Royces greet their guests before escorting them to the keep.

Runestone is an ancient keep, one that looks as if it might have stood since the Children of the Forest lived here. 

_ This is my new home, _ Jeyne realizes. 

It’s not nearly as big as Winterfell, but nothing is; even the Red Keep wasn’t as big as Winterfell. It’s of a good size, though. And it overlooks the sea, which will be nice. Lord Royce mentions that there’s a beach just down the hill from the keep, and Jeyne determines to explore it later. For now, she’s eager for a bath. She and Sansa take one together, washing the sick and sea out of their hair and off their skin. 

“What do you think?” Jeyne asks.

“Of what?”

“Of Runestone, silly!”

“I haven’t seen that much of it yet.”

“But?”

“But...it’s nice. It’s by the sea. I always liked watching the ships in King’s Landing.” Sansa hesitates. “I’m...nervous, though.”

“Why?”

“Because...I’m going to live here now. What if I don’t like it? What if...what if I hate it here?”

“I highly doubt you’re going to hate it,” Jeyne says reasonably. “It’s smaller than ho--than Winterfell, so it’ll take getting used to. But it’s right on the ocean, so you can swim whenever you want. I think. And it’ll be much warmer here than up North. And of course there’s Ser Andar.”

Sansa takes a deep, steadying breath. “Yes. Ser Andar.”

Jeyne stops washing Sansa’s hair and peers around to look her in the eye. “Do you not want to marry him?”

“I don’t  _ not _ want to marry him.” Sansa bites her lip. “I...what if we don’t like each other? What if we...hate each other?”

“You’re  _ not _ going to hate each other,” Jeyne says, trying not to laugh. “He’s obviously smitten with you, and you like him.”

“But what if--”

“Sansa.” She wraps her arms around her friend. “Everything’s going to be  _ fine _ .”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“I still have that knife.”

Sansa smiles; her goal accomplished, Jeyne goes back to washing her hair.

.

When they’ve dressed, Ser Andar shows Sansa around the keep. Jeyne is meant to follow, to chaperone the two before they’re wed, but when Theon appears in the yard and touches her hand, she looks at Sansa and Andar and knows that she’ll never be missed. She follows Theon around the corner, giggling when he presses her against the wall and kisses her. 

“I have a surprise for you,” he says.

“Are you going to kiss me down there again?”

He grins. “Later. Come on.” He takes her hand, leading her into the keep. She follows, bemused. He takes her to the hall where she’s staying and leads her into a room…

Where Ros is sitting on the bed, grinning. 

“Ros!” Jeyne shrieks, running towards the other woman. Without entirely meaning to, she tackles the other woman onto the bed, exclaiming as she hugs her. Ros laughs, hugging her back.

“What are you doing here?!” Jeyne asks when she sits up at last. 

“You invited me,” Ros reminds her.

“I know, but I didn’t think you’d really  _ come _ .”

Ros smiles. “Runestone is a lot easier to get to than Winterfell.  And I wanted to see you.” She reaches up, stroking Jeyne’s hair. “You’ve grown since I saw you last.”

“It’s been a few years,” Jeyne reminds her. 

“I’ve got to go,” Theon says from the door. “You two have fun catching up.”

“Thank you,” Jeyne tells him sincerely.

He smiles at her. “I’ll see you.” He closes the door behind him.

It only takes a moment for Ros to put two and two together. “You’re with him?”

Jeyne bites her lip, flushing.

“You are!” Ros crows, looking delighted. “How did that come about?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, we’ve got time.” 

.

The two women spend the rest of the afternoon catching up, telling each other all that’s transpired since they parted. 

“You’ve had quite the adventure,” Ros notes. “Should’ve come with me to Pentos.”

“And do what?” Jeyne shakes her head. “I’m not a whore. Not anymore.”

“You wouldn’t have to be a whore in Pentos, either.” Ros hesitates. “Are you happy here? Truly?”

“I’ve only just arrived here.”

“I mean in Westeros.” Ros takes her hand, giving her a searching look. “Are you happy serving Sansa Stark?”

“Sansa is my truest friend,” Jeyne tells her. “She’s done so much for me.”

“But are you  _ happy _ ?”

Jeyne hesitates. “I’m not...unhappy.”

“Jeyne…”

“Sansa is my family. Where she goes, I go.” Jeyne gives Ros a reassuring smile. “I’m happy with her. Truly.”

“And what about Theon?” Ros asks, arching a brow. “Don’t you want to be with him?”

“I can’t be.” Jeyne flops down on the bed. “He’s a member of the Kingsguard.”

“You could go back to Winterfell. Stay with him.”

“And do what? Be a servant? Scrub the floors by day and suck his cock by night?” Jeyne shakes her head. “My father was a steward. There’s nothing left of my house. Serving as Sansa’s lady-in-waiting is the best thing that could happen to me.”

Ros nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t fully believe Jeyne. “Well...if you ever change your mind...you always have a place to stay with me. And you don’t have to work for it or anything like that. I’d take care of you because you’re my friend.”

It touches Jeyne, and she nods. “I’ll remember that.”

“Truth be told, I’ve been thinking about expanding my business,” Ros goes on. “I’m planning to sail to King’s Landing after the wedding.”

“King’s Landing?”

“I left King’s Landing before to help you,” she reminds the younger woman. “That doesn’t matter anymore. The only person who’d want to hurt me for it is Littlefinger, and he’s dead. I could open a pleasure house in the capital. It’s not a bad journey between King’s Landing and Pentos. And with the right business partner, I could manage both places easily.”

“Oh, I hope you do,” Jeyne says excitedly. “I could see more of you that way.”

“Aye, you could.” Ros smiles, touching her hair. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”

Jeyne looks out the window. “It’s getting dark. I should find Sansa. She’ll want to see you, too.” She gets up, hesitating before turning back to Ros. “You and Theon...you aren’t still...I know you used to…?”

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Ros says softly. “I promise.”

Jeyne nods, relieved. “I...good.”

“Have  _ you _ and Theon…?”

Jeyne flushes. “Sort of.”

“ _ Sort of _ ?” Ros repeats, getting off the bed. “What does that mean?”

“He...kisses me. Down there. Sometimes.”

Ros cackles as she takes Jeyne’s arm, leading her out the door. “He never liked doing that before. He’s changed.  _ You’ve _ changed him.”

“How do you know it’s me?”

“Jeyne. We both know who he used to be. And look at him now.”

“Look at who now?”

They turn, seeing Theon down the hall. He strides toward them, smiling. 

“Were your ears burning?” Ros asks.

“Yes.” He rests a hand on Jeyne’s back, brushing his lips against her temple. Ros watches them with a smile. “I always know when I’m being talked about.”

“We were talking about how much you’ve changed,” Jeyne supplies.

“Yes; the Theon Greyjoy I used to know wasn’t very fond of fish pie,” Ros says coyly.

“The Theon Greyjoy you used to know was an idiot,” Theon says, walking with them towards the hall for dinner. 

“Are you saying you’re not an idiot anymore?”

“A different kind,” he says with a smile.

Ros stops suddenly, turning to face Theon with a grave expression. “If you ever hurt her, I’ll cut off your cock. Understand?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Yes.”

Jeyne flushes, but Ros merely nods and keeps walking. 

“I’m sorry,” Jeyne murmurs to Theon, but he shakes his head. 

“No. She’s right to be protective of you. She’ll have to get in line, though.” He kisses her head again.

“Right,” Jeyne agrees. “Because if you ever do hurt me, I’ll cut your cock off myself.”

.

Over the next few days, nobility from all over Westeros flock to Runestone to attend the wedding. Most of them are from the Vale, but there are others from the Riverlands and the Reach and the North. Jeyne is surprised to see that Walda Bolton comes with Edmure.

“We are to be married,” Edmure tells his sister. 

“You and  _ Walda Bolton _ ?” Catelyn asks in disbelief.

“She’s not my usual type,” he admits. “But that’s what I love about her.”

“ _ Love _ ?”

“I love her. And I will marry her,” Edmure says stubbornly. 

Catelyn raises her eyebrows. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

“Mother says she despaired of him ever finding a wife,” Sansa confides later that night. “He was too picky. He didn’t care how wealthy they were or how many titles they had, as long as they were pretty.  _ Very _ pretty. And thin. And for him to fall for Lady Walda…”

“He’s changed,” Jeyne says, remembering what Ros had said earlier. “She’s changed him.”

Sansa bites her lip. “Love...changes people. That’s what my mother always says.”

“She’s right.”

Sansa sits up suddenly. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Tomorrow night, when it’s time for the bedding...will you go into the next room and listen? To...to make sure he doesn’t...hurt me. Not that I think he will,” Sansa says quickly. “I only…”

“I understand,” Jeyne says softly. She understands more than most. “Yes. Of course I will.”

“Thank you.” Sansa lies back down. “Do you think it will hurt much?”

“Ros said it was like a pinch. If he’s kind. It will feel better if he...pleases you.”

“Pleases me how?”

Jeyne flushes. “With his tongue.”

“His  _ tongue _ ?” Sansa looks aghast. “Is that...what Theon does to you?”

Jeyne’s red face is all the answer Sansa needs.

“People  _ do _ that?”

“It’s quite nice,” Jeyne defends. 

“It doesn’t sound nice.”

“It’s like a kiss. It feels good. And it will help you finish.”

“Finish?”

Jeyne looks at her. “You know.  _ Come _ .”

“What does that mean?”

Jeyne stares at her. “You don’t...you don’t know what coming means?”

“I know what it means when men do it,” Sansa defends, flushing. “But that’s just men, isn’t it?”

Jeyne closes her eyes. “Oh, Sansa...my sweet summer child…”

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not, I just…” Jeyne sits up. “It can be pleasurable for women, too.”

“How?”

Jeyne bites her lip. “Well...touch yourself.”

Sansa looks revolted.

“No, really! Touch that soft pink part.”

Sansa has a suspicious look on her face as her hand moves beneath the furs. “It doesn’t feel nice yet.”

“Just...feel around it.”

Sansa does, eyes still narrowed. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Give it a  _ moment _ \--”

“What if I’m doing it wrong?”

“You might be.”

“Can’t you just  _ show _ me?”

With a huff, Jeyne yanks back the furs and pushes Sansa’s nightgown up around her hips. Hardly knowing what she’s doing herself, Jeyne touches her friend, feeling for the little hard nub that she’s found on herself. Sansa sucks in a breath when Jeyne finds it, her eyes going wide. 

“Oh.”

“There,” Jeyne says, and suddenly she feels nervous. “Um. If you want to…”

“Can you show me?” Sansa pleads.

Jeyne nods, still nervous, and moves her fingers the way Theon moves his when he touches her. It isn’t hard to figure out what feels good and what doesn’t, based on Sansa’s reactions. Her friend gets wetter and wetter, and when Jeyne slides a finger inside her, Sansa’s hands scrabble on the bed for purchase. Jeyne adds a second finger, curling them against that rough patch inside. It only takes a few thrusts before Sansa cries out, contracting over Jeyne’s fingers. She breathes hard, her eyes wide and dark as she looks up at Jeyne.

_ “Oh.” _

“That’s, um, the essence of it,” Jeyne says, withdrawing her fingers. They’re wet and sticky, and she wipes them on her nightgown. 

“And men...do that? To women?”

“I don’t know,” Jeyne admits. “Theon does it to me.” She gets back under the covers, lying down and staring up at the canopy. 

They both lie there in silence for a long moment, but when they finally look at each other, they burst into hysterical giggles. They laugh until their sides ache, and even when they think they’ve calmed down, they burst into giggles again.

“So that’s...coming,” Sansa marvels at last.

“It is.”

“And you said...you can do it with your mouth?”

“Do you want me to show you that, too?”

They burst into giggles again.


	72. ARYA XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao ignore my last author's note, apparently even being stressed to the point of insomnia will not prevent me from writing.

The morning of Sansa’s wedding finds Arya riding on the beach. She slipped out early, before her mother could rope her into wedding preparations. She’ll be in trouble once Catelyn discovers she gave them all the slip, but that will be far more tolerable than helping Sansa get ready for the wedding. Sansa and Catelyn and Jeyne will have it all in hand anyway. 

Catelyn has been blissfully preoccupied with Sansa’s own wedding to think about Arya’s, but that will change soon. As soon as they’re back in Winterfell, Catelyn will start going through eligible bachelors.

There’s a ship lying offshore, bobbing in the waves. Arya’s seized by a mad desire to get to it and sail wherever it’s headed. King’s Landing. Gulltown. White Harbor. Eastwatch. Essos. Somewhere where she can be Arya and not some lord’s wife. 

It’s mid-morning by the time she gives up and retreats back to the keep. As she expected, Catelyn is furious with her, but thankfully too distracted by the wedding to enforce any kind of  punishment. Instead, she has Arya plopped in a tub, ordering her to scrub until she shines.

By the time Arya has bathed and dressed in the gown her mother laid out for her, a maidservant fetches her into Sansa’s chamber. A flock of women are sitting around, chatting and laughing. Among them are Lord Royce’s daughters, Sharra Royce, Aemma Waynwood, and Ysilla Redfort. All three of them are younger than Ser Andar, yet all three of them are married--an irony that is not lost on Arya. Sharra and Aemma both have children of their own, and the roundness of Ysilla’s belly indicates that she’s not far behind. How long until Sansa joins them? 

“There you are,” Catelyn says in a testy voice. 

“Leave her be, Mother,” Sansa says, sounding surprisingly calm for one about to be married. “She’s not hurting anyone.”

Catelyn purses her lips. 

Grateful for her sister’s intervention, Arya takes a seat near her sister. “You look nice,” she offers.

It’s true: Sansa is radiant in a white gown cut in the Vale fashion, her red hair brilliant against the white silk. Jeyne places a silver coronet on her head, a simple but elegant piece. 

Sansa beams. “Thank you. So do you.”

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Sansa admits. 

“Ser Andar is a good man,” Arya says. And he is; he’s been nothing but kind to her since she arrived, and he’s the very picture of courtesy with Sansa. 

“I know. It’s just...leaving home, living here with people I barely know in a place I’ve never been to before.” Sansa shrugs. “It’s daunting.”

“Yeah.” Arya understands that. She’s afraid of that, too. 

Sansa takes her hand. “You always make friends so easily. I’m sure...wherever you end up will be...you’ll be happy.”

“Maybe.” Arya has her doubts. How could she be happy anywhere that isn’t Winterfell?

“You can always stay here at Runestone. Delay the inevitable.”

“What if Mother picks a husband for me when I’m not there?”

“She wouldn’t. She knows you’d lead a rebellion if she did.” 

“Alright, ladies,” Catelyn says loudly, interrupting the chatter. “It’s time.”

Sansa looks at Arya, her face suddenly pale.

“You’ll be fine,” Arya says with more confidence than she feels. “You know the words. That’s all you have to do. Say some words.”

Sansa nods, a look of determination taking over her face. She stands up and leads the way to the sept.

.

Arya has never had a desire for pretty things--not the same way her sister has. With that being said, even she can’t deny that the wedding is a beautiful one. The bronze that adorns the seven-sided sept catches the sunlight, filling the place with a rainbow of light. The septon’s crystal nearly blinds Arya with its brilliance.

And the whole time, Sansa looks a dream. She’s always known her sister was beautiful, easily one of the most beautiful women in all of Westeros, but seeing her like this makes Arya tear up just a little bit. She truly looks a princess, and the adoration on Ser Andar’s face can’t possibly be feigned. 

He’ll be good to her, Arya’s sure. The Royces are a good people. The wolves like them, which Arya takes as a sign. The wolves always know. 

When the septon declares Sansa and Andar husband and wife, the sept rings with applause. The newlyweds look out at the guests, smiling, and then Ser Andar stoops down to lift Sansa into his arms. Laughter and cheers rise at the Northern custom, and everyone follows the knight as he takes his wife into the great hall.

Sansa and Andar are seated at the high table with Lord Royce and his wife. Arya, Catelyn, and Rickon sit nearby, close enough to get up and talk to Sansa if they wish. Sansa looks happy; she spends nearly the entire feast talking to Andar, smiling and laughing. He cuts her meat for her and feeds her off his own fork, and though Sansa eats little (always dainty, her sister), she seems to enjoy the attention he pays her. 

Catelyn seems happy too; she looks more at ease than she has since she and Sansa got back from the Vale all those months ago. She drinks wine until her cheeks flush, smiling and laughing with the other lords and ladies. 

When the hour grows late, Lord Royce stands up to speak, and the room falls silent to hear him.

“Your Grace,” he booms, addressing Rickon. “Your sister and my son appear tired--perhaps they ought to retreat to their bed for the evening.”

Cheers rise up at this. Sansa flushes. 

Rickon stands up. “Then by all means, let them be bedded!”

Louder cheers rise up. The men take Sansa from her seat, lifting her up and carrying her out of the hall. The women reach for Ser Andar, laughing merrily as they tear at his clothes. 

Arya cannot contain her curiosity, so she slips out, joining the throng of women. Ser Andar’s jerkin is unlaced and hanging open by the time they reach the bridal chamber. Sansa is already there, blissfully untouched--Arya has a feeling it has something to do with Grey Wind sitting at her feet. 

“Alright,” Ser Andar says goodnaturedly. “Everyone out.”

The revelers leave, calling out some last pieces of bawdy advice before they go. 

“Arya,” Sansa calls. “Can you take Grey Wind?”

Arya nods. “Here, Grey Wind.”

The wolf unfolds his long legs, padding complacently towards her. She leads him from the room, throwing one last glance over her shoulder at her sister. Sansa sits on the bed, hands folded in her lap, and then Ser Andar closes the door.

Jeyne is out in the hall, a grave look on her face.

“Are you going back to the feast?” Arya asks.

Jeyne shakes her head. “No, I...I want to make sure she’s...safe.”

Arya feels a pang of sympathy for the other woman. Poor Jeyne. Of course she’d be afraid for Sansa, after everything she’s been through. 

“I’ll stay with you,” she offers.

The two women stand outside, ears pressed to the door. They hear low murmuring, and then a rhythmic sort of thumping, followed by gasps and grunts. Arya flushes. That’s her  _ sister _ she’s hearing. But Jeyne is right to be afraid; Ser Andar, kind as he is, could be secretly cruel. He could hurt Sansa tonight. 

But he doesn’t. Sansa sounds...well, as if she’s enjoying it to some degree, and when the noises stop, there’s silence, punctuated at last by a giggle. 

Beside her, Jeyne sags in relief. 

The two women head back down to the feast. Catelyn looks up at Arya’s return, and once she’s seated, leans in. “Well? Is she…?”

“Yes,” Arya says shortly.

Catelyn nods. “I pray the gods will give her a son.”

“I pray that she’ll be happy.”  _ And I pray that I will be too. _


	73. SANSA XIV

The guests linger for another week or so before returning to their homes--or in Ros’s case, to King’s Landing. Sansa can’t say she’s  _ entirely _ supportive of the business endeavor, but she knows that Ros would never mistreat her girls the way Littlefinger mistreated his. She protected Jeyne even when it meant risking her life. 

Disapproval at the act of whoring aside, Sansa does ask Ros for some pointers before she leaves. The other woman is happy to give them, and though many of them sound too bold for Sansa, they’re things to keep in mind.

Her wedding night had been nice, even if she hadn’t come. Andar had been careful with her, and that had meant a lot. In the old days, some lords would display the bed sheets from the wedding night in their halls. The more blood, the more respect that lord would earn. Blood meant you’d broken in your lady well, and there were stories of lords who would brutalize their wives just to bloody the sheet.

Sansa is glad, then, that Andar had had no such desires. He was gentle that first night, and he has been gentle every night since. Slowly, she’s been teaching him how to please her. She still hasn’t come with him yet, but Ros had told her it might be like that. 

“Most men don’t know how to please women, and many of them don’t care,” the other woman had said. “If he’s half as honorable as he seems, he won’t have had much experience. Give him time.”

So Sansa is giving him time, time enough to learn her body. 

Her mother takes her to the sept near every day, praying for a healthy son. She’s even instructed Jeyne to make sure that Sansa props her feet up on a cushion in bed every morning, which is supposed to make Andar’s seed take root inside her. 

Sansa understands the urgency, to a degree; Andar’s brothers are both dead, and as the heir of Runestone, it is his responsibility to have sons to take his place someday. If he dies without a son, Runestone will pass to one of his sisters’ sons. 

It isn’t just Runestone that needs an heir; as Rickon’s oldest trueborn sibling, Sansa and her children are heirs to the North until Rickon has children of his own. If something should happen to Rickon, her son or daughter would inherit the North. And if she has no children, it will fall to Arya, and if  _ Arya _ doesn’t have any children…

Well. 

She remembers that day in the Red Keep, when Septa Mordane had shown her the throne room. She’d asked, fearful, what if she only had daughters. After all, Jeyne’s mother had birthed five daughters, four of which died in their first month. Even now, Sansa fears such a fate. Not because she doesn’t want daughters or thinks that they’re not as good as boys, but because she knows everyone will judge her for it. 

So when her mother takes her to the sept, she gets on her knees beside her and prays to the Mother for a child to make her family proud.

.

The day finally comes when Catelyn, Arya, and Rickon return North. Sansa has been butting heads with all of them and is almost eager to see them go, but when she stands on the docks to see them off, tears fill her eyes and she clings hard to all of them.

“I’ll come visit,” Arya promises. “And you’d better visit too.”

“I will,” Sansa swears. She hugs her sister, squeezing her eyes shut as a fresh wave of tears comes. It takes all her effort to pull back, blinking back her tears and forcing a smile. She watches as her mother and siblings climb into the boat, and she keeps the smile on her face until their faces are little more than specks. 

Andar rests a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll see them again,” he says softly.

“I know.” She turns, heading back towards the keep. She catches a glimpse of Jeyne’s face and is unsurprised to see the other woman is also crying. She had to say her goodbyes to Theon earlier, but that didn’t soften the blow of watching him sail away.

Maester Helliweg meets them in the yard. “A raven just arrived for you, Lady Sansa.”

“For me?” she asks in surprise. She takes the scroll, breaking the plain wax seal. 

_ Sansa, _

_ On the journey to King’s Landing, we saw a fleet of ships bearing the Targaryen sigil headed for Dragonstone. With them were three dragons, each of them the size of ships. I heard rumors of Daenerys Targaryen and her army of Unsullied and Dothraki when I was in Pentos, and now it seems she’s come back to claim the Seven Kingdoms.  _

_ I don’t know what any of this means. I imagine Stannis will be calling the banners. I imagine her dragons can do a great deal of damage. Be safe. Give Jeyne my love. _

_ Ros _

Sansa looks up.

“What is it?” Andar asks urgently. “You’re pale.”

“Daenerys Targaryen has crossed the Narrow Sea--she will have reached Dragonstone by now,” Sansa says, looking back down at the scroll. “She has an army of Unsullied and Dothraki, and three dragons.”

“Dragons?” Lord Royce scoffs. “Preposterous.”

“Ros wouldn’t lie,” she says firmly. Jeyne reads over her shoulder, and Sansa moves the scroll so that she can better see it. “If she says she saw dragons, I believe her.”

“But what does this mean?” Lady Royce presses. 

“There can only be one reason Daenerys crossed the Narrow Sea,” Andar says grimly. “She’ll want to take back the throne.”

“She’ll never take it,” Lord Royce dismisses. 

“She has Unsullied, Dothraki, and three dragons,” Sansa points out. “Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters had three dragons, and together, they made the Seven Kingdoms bend the knee.”

“They were just that: Seven Kingdoms,” Lord Royce points out. “Now Stannis rules six of those kingdoms, and your brother is his ally. She may put up a fight, but she’ll never defeat one unified army.”

“You think it will be war?” Lady Royce asks nervously.

Lord Royce pats her hand. “You will be quite safe, my dear.”

Uneasily, Sansa thinks of her ancestor, Torrhen Stark. He’d had thirty thousand men marching behind him, and in the end, he’d bent the knee to Aegon. Will Rickon have to make the same choice as Torrhen? Will he have to choose between bending the knee and fighting a war that will kill thousands of men? 

“Could someone not...reason with her?” Sansa asks desperately. “See if there might be some arrangement?”

“You can’t reason with a Targaryen,” Andar snorts. “Not Aerys’s daughter, anyway. She’s as mad as him, I’ll wager.”

“You don’t even know her,” Sansa points out. 

“You would defend her?”

“Yes,” Sansa says, surprising herself. “Like it or not, Aerys  _ was _ the king, and Robert claimed the Iron Throne on the basis that his grandmother was a Targaryen, and House Baratheon were the closest blood relatives to the Targaryens. If we’re taking that into account, by rights, Daenerys has a stronger claim to the throne than Stannis.”

“But she’s a  _ woman _ ,” Lady Royce points out. “Women don’t rule. And anyway, she’s a foreigner.”

“She was born on Dragonstone, and her being a woman should have little to do with it,” Sansa says, enflamed. She is Rickon’s heir, and if he dies without issue, she would become Queen in the North. Surely Lady Royce realizes that?

“It makes no matter,” Lord Royce says before his wife can retort. “Stannis is not like to cede the throne after fighting a war to get it. If the Targaryen girl wants the throne, she’ll have to fight Stannis. There’s a war coming, mark my words.”

Another war.  _ When will it end? _ When will enough be enough? 

_Winter is coming_ , her father always said. The Stark words. Her words. Winter is coming, and with it, fire and blood.


	74. JAIME V

Jaime sups with Jon in the Lord Commander’s chamber that evening. They do this every now and then, when Jon is unable to bear the eyes that always follow him. Sometimes he wants to eat and drink and talk like a normal man--but one cannot be a normal man and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch at the same time. 

Jaime understands this desire to not be seen better than most. He’s had eyes on him his whole life; as the eldest son of the wealthiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, he had a lot to live up to. And then he’d become the youngest knight to ever join the Kingsguard, and  _ then _ he’d killed Aerys, and, well, there was no trying to be normal after that. He’d come to accept it over time, but he still gets tired of the eyes on him all the time. So he joins Jon in his tower, eating and drinking and talking like normal men.

“Two ravens came today,” Jon says, tearing off a piece of bread. “One from Samwell Tarly, and another from my sister Sansa.”

Jaime waits for Jon to go on.

Jon swallows his bread. “The raven from Sam says that there’s a mine of dragonglass on the isle of Dragonstone. If he’s correct, this could be crucial to defeating the Army of the Dead.”

“Well, good,” Jaime says, surprised. “Dragonstone’s uninhabited now that Stannis is in King’s Landing, isn’t it? Shouldn’t be a problem.”

But Jon shakes his head. “It  _ is _ inhabited. By Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jaime stares at him. “ _ Targaryen _ ?”

“It seems she found the ships to sail across the Narrow Sea with thousands of Unsullied and Dothraki, as well as her dragons. She landed on Dragonstone not long ago.”

“How does your sister know all this?” Jaime demands. “Wouldn’t Stannis’s maester send us a raven with this information if it were true?”

“He might not think it’s our concern,” Jon says gently. “The Night’s Watch swears to take no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms. We can’t do anything. We have sworn to guard the realms of men; that is where our duty begins and ends.” He leans back, sipping his ale. “Sansa has a friend in King’s Landing who saw the Targaryen fleet crossing the Narrow Sea. She’s newly married, and her husband has some thought of sending her here should Daenerys’s war with Stannis turn ugly.”

“So it’s war now?”

“Not yet,” Jon admits. “But I don’t see how it could be anything else.”

Jaime considers this. Everyone and their mother knew about the two Targaryen children who slipped across the Narrow Sea, but no one had been very concerned about them. They’d only been children, and they’d had no money or power. The people of the Free Cities called Viserys “The Beggar King”. They’d been no threat to Robert, a warrior with the power of House Lannister behind him. But House Lannister is nearly gone now, ruled by his adolescent cousin, and Daenerys Targaryen has the world’s most lethal warriors at her back. 

_ How did it come to this? _

Robert had wanted to kill the Targaryen girl--and for once, Jaime has to admit that Robert had had the right idea. Ned Stark hadn’t seen the threat in Daenerys Targaryen getting with child, and truth be told, neither had Jaime. Even if that child was Aerys’s grandson, he would never have the Targaryen name, and his father’s army would never cross the sea. Viserys may have named him his heir, but that would mean nothing if Viserys couldn’t obtain a fleet and army. 

But now look at her. She lost her brother, her child, and her husband, and in their places she’d gained an army. 

“So what happens now? You ask the Targaryen woman if you can mine the dragonglass on her island?”

“Yes,” Jon says simply. “The Night’s Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms, and she knows that. I have a very reasonable request. She has no need of dragonglass.” He hesitates. “But...we may need her. Her armies and her dragons. They can help us defeat the Army of the Dead.”

“You think she’ll agree to that? If your brother doesn’t bend the knee, I imagine she’ll let the North deal with the dead on their own,” Jaime says darkly. 

“That may be,” Jon allows. “But I don’t think so.”

“No?”

Jon shakes his head. “All the stories we have from the east...she freed all of Slaver’s Bay, and the people who once wore chains now rule in their own right because of her. If she wanted to take Westeros at whatever cost, she would have marched on King’s Landing already, but she hasn’t. She could have taken the city with her three dragons, but she didn’t.”

“You think she’s merciful,” Jaime realizes. 

“I do.” 

Jaime thinks upon this. It  _ is _ something, that she freed the slaves after which the bay was named. Her own ancestors were the ones to put chains on them, and now she’s righting their wrongs. She was born a princess, the last Targaryen in the world, but she and her brother lived off of the hospitality of strangers. Her own brother sold her to a Dothraki horse lord, which Jaime supposes is a kind of slavery all on its own. How many women are chained to their husbands, the links forged by money and power and greed? 

“If she wants the people of Westeros to like her, she will defend them against the greatest threat they’ve ever known,” Jon continues. “Nothing could be a surer way of winning their love.”

“Their love, yes--but if she was smart, she’d wait for Stannis to march North and take the city in his absence,” Jaime points out. “Fear can be just as effective as love.”

“It can,” Jon agrees. “But I don’t think she’d choose fear.”

Jaime leans back in his seat, worrying at a string of meat between his teeth. “So what do you propose to do?”

“I plan to go to Dragonstone and bring my sister, Sansa. She’s more...diplomatic than I am. She could speak for the North, and with Stannis’s permission, the Six Kingdoms. Convince Daenerys to fight for the living before she fights for her throne.”

Jaime hesitates. 

“What?”

He takes a moment to choose his words. “I only worry...that she won’t believe you. I didn’t believe in the White Walkers when you first told me of them, and I only believed when I saw them. What makes you think she’s going to believe you when it sounds like a wet nurse’s story?”

Jon smiles. “Sansa.”


	75. MYRCELLA III

When Myrcella peers out of her carriage’s curtains, she can’t help but suck in a breath. 

King’s Landing looks so  _ different _ now. Not at all like the city in which she spent her whole life. The Great Sept of Baelor is gone, the Red Keep is gone, even the three hills are barely noticeable. The new keep is hardly visible beneath the scaffolding, but from what she can see, Stannis has chosen to keep the red exterior. That makes sense, she supposes; he worships the red god now.

Truth be told, she has no idea why he summoned her to King’s Landing with such urgency. Public chastisement for marrying Shireen’s betrothed, perhaps. Perhaps he found out about her mother--or worse, Tommen.

“If he wanted to punish you or hurt you, he would have sent his men,” Trystane had soothed her. “This is a mere summons.”

“He bids me come with all haste. Why?”

Trystane hadn’t had an answer to that.

Her stomach’s been in knots most of the voyage, but as they get closer to the keep, she feels truly faint.

“It’s because I’m a bastard,” she says aloud.

Trystane grips her hand. “That’s not why.”

“I’m the bastard of two traitors, a Kingslayer and an adulteress, who, by the way, happened to be brother and sister,” she says bitterly. “And then I married the man who was supposed to marry the future queen.”

“None of this is your fault,” he insists. “You can’t control your birth, and as for our marriage, if anyone is at fault, it is me for breaking my betrothal to Shireen.”

But the summons had been for  _ her _ . Her, and no one else. Trystane is with her now because he is her husband, but Stannis had made no mention of him, or of anyone else joining her. 

_ So what could he want? _

He had been her uncle, once. They’d never been close; Stannis is not the sort of man to whom one becomes close, and she’d been only a little girl. Sometimes he’d bring Shireen to court, but not often; her greyscale has always been a point of contention, and Stannis had been loath to expose his only child to the cruelty at court. When she did come, she and Myrcella were inseparable. 

_ Is she still the girl I knew?  _

Shireen had always been the more complacent of the two. As princess of the realm, Myrcella always got her way. When they played pretend, it was Myrcella who played the princess and Shireen her loyal friend. It was Myrcella who married the handsome prince, and Shireen who helped her put on her wedding dress. 

_ And now I’ve married the handsome prince again, even though he was hers to wed. _

She doesn’t regret it, not really. She loves Trystane, and he her, and she’s been happier at Sunspear than she has anywhere else in her life. Prince Doran had been furious with their marriage at first, but his grudge had passed quickly. 

“I already lost one son because of my foolishness,” he’d said. “I will not lose another.”

_ Yet you may lose him anyway,  _ Myrcella reflects.

The carriage takes them to the keep, where guards let them enter. Myrcella’s stomach is in knots, and when Trystane alights, she accepts his hand, clinging to it as she steps down.

The yard is filled with the smell of sawdust and the sound of saws and hammers. Scaffolding lines the walls, and a guard leads them under it into the keep. Myrcella smooths her dress with one hand, the other still holding onto Trystane. His thumb brushes over her knuckles soothingly, reassuring her that everything will be alright. 

When they reach the throne room, Myrcella is relieved to see that only a handful of people are in it: Stannis on his throne (not the Iron Throne, nothing like it; this one is made of stone, firm and resolute), a few men on the dais, and beside him, a woman with red hair, a red dress, and a burning red ruby at her throat. Only a few others stand in the galley or watch from the sides; nothing like the crowds that used to come petitioning.

“Prince Trystane and Princess Myrcella Martell of Dorne,” the herald calls, and with a deep breath, Myrcella and Trystane come forward. She cannot bear to meet Stannis’s eyes, choosing instead to sink gracefully to her knees. 

“Your Grace,” she and Trystane murmur, heads bowed.

“Rise,” Stannis says, sounding dry and unamused as always. Myrcella does, still looking down.

“Your Grace,” Trystane begins, “I apologize for the offense I caused--”

“We’re not here to discuss that,” Stannis interrupts. “What’s done is done. This is another matter entirely. Look at me, child.”

Myrcella obeys, lifting her eyes to Stannis. He looks much as he ever did, though she sees a touch of grey at his temples now that hadn’t been there before, and there are more lines on his face. His clothes, while finely cut, are simple. The crown upon his head is a new design, a forest of antlers closing around a flaming heart. 

“Daenerys Targaryen and her army have landed on Dragonstone,” he says. His face and tone are impossible to read. Is he japing? No, Stannis never japes. “I am sending you as my envoy to treat with her.”

To say that she feels stunned would be an understatement. Myrcella, a former princess sold to the Martells like a broodmare, a bastard who married the future prince consort, representing Stannis in front of Daenerys Targaryen? Is this some sort of punishment?

“Why?” Trystane asks.

“I’m not sending you,” Stannis says irritably. “You may go if you wish, but your presence is irrelevant to me. It’s Myrcella I’m sending.”

“Why?” she asks. “Why me?”

“Because serving as Daenerys’s Hand is your uncle, Tyrion Lannister.”

She had heard something about Uncle Tyrion joining Daenerys Targaryen. It surprised her, but it hadn’t been the forefront of her concerns. Her uncle had always been unorthodox. He’d wanted to see the Wall when they went North all those years ago, and had somehow found himself on trial in the Eyrie. He’d led the defense of the Battle of Blackwater, or so she was told. And then there had been that business with Joffrey and Grandfather. She couldn’t, and still can’t, believe her uncle capable of murdering his own nephew, even if it  _ was _ Joffrey, but he had killed Grandfather, too. Or so they said. “They” say an awful lot of things.

“And you want me to reason with him?” she guesses.

“Lord Tyrion was always fond of you,” Stannis recalls, much to her surprise. He had really noticed that? “I believe you may have more luck with him than any of my men.”

Myrcella cocks her head. “With him, you said. Not with Daenerys?”

“If your uncle could persuade the Mad King’s daughter to take on a Lannister as her Hand, I have no doubt he can persuade her to a great many things.” Stannis looks at her emphatically. “I would hope you would encourage him to persuade her to peace.”

“I will do my best, Your Grace.” 

Stannis nods. “Very good. I expect regular reports of negotiations. If it comes to war, it comes to war, but I would not relinquish my throne.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

“Good. I have a ship waiting. Do you have everything you need?”

“So soon?” 

“We can waste no time.”

She glances at Trystane. “Can my husband come with me?”

“If that is your wish.”

She hesitates. “Before I go, may I please see Princess Shireen? Alone?”

Stannis looks unsurprised--then again, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look surprised in his life. “You may. Ser Davos.”

One of the men on the dais comes forward. “This way, my lady.”

She glances at Trystane. “I’ll meet you on the ship.”

He looks surprised, but nods. She turns back, following the man called Ser Davos out of the throne room. 

“Ser Davos…?”

“Seaworth, my lady,” he says in a gruff but kind voice. “Better known as the Onion Knight.”

“I remember you,” she recalls now. “Well, I don’t think we ever spoke, but I remember Shireen talking about you.”

“The princess is a great friend of mine,” he says without a trace of irony. “Taught me how to read, as a matter of fact.” 

Shireen was always reading books; it makes Myrcella smile to remember it. “I’m glad.”

“She always spoke highly of you, my lady,” he adds, glancing at her. 

Myrcella feels suddenly nervous. “Is she angry with me?” she asks in a rush. “For marrying Trystane?”

Ser Davos actually smiles. “No. Truth be told, I think she was happy to be rid of him. He, ah, made his displeasure at their betrothal known. He still wanted to marry you and it was obvious to all who knew him, including the princess.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” he confirms. “Have no fear on that count, my lady.”

Still, when he knocks on Shireen’s door, Myrcella feels ill. She puts out a hand, steadying herself against the wall. 

“Come in,” Shireen calls from inside, and then there’s nothing for it but to enter.

Some part of Myrcella had been expecting the little girl she once knew, and it throws her off to see a pretty young woman. Her black hair hangs freely down her back, only a few small braids keeping it out of her eyes. Her dress is in the Baratheon colors, black velvet on yellow taffeta, and when she looks up, Myrcella is stunned by the striking beauty of her blue eyes.

“My lady, Princess Myrcella wanted to speak with you,” Ser Davos says with a small bow. 

“Thank you, Ser Davos.” Shireen closes the book in her hands, nodding at the Onion Knight. He bows again and takes his leave, shutting the door.

Myrcella wants to speak first,  _ means _ to speak first, but the words catch in her throat and she spends far too long trying to loosen them.

“You look well,” Shireen says at last. There’s no malice in her voice, no hardness to her eyes. 

“I am. Thank you. My lady,” Myrcella says awkwardly. “I...you also look well.”

“I am, thank you.” 

Myrcella forces the words from her mouth. “I meant no offense when I wed Trystane, I swear to you.”

“Oh, coz, I know you didn’t,” Shireen exclaims, coming forward and taking her hands.

Myrcella gives her a small, watery smile. “We aren’t really cousins, you know.” 

“You’ll always be my cousin,” Shireen insists. 

“Can you ever forgive me? For marrying your betrothed?”

“He was your betrothed first,” Shireen points out. “We wouldn’t have been happy together. I’m glad that you married him.”

Myrcella nearly cries. Seeing this, Shireen wraps her arms around the other woman, holding her close. 

“The truth of your birth will never change the way I feel about you, Myrcella. You were the closest thing I ever had to a sister, and I hope we can be close again.”

“I would like that very much,” Myrcella says honestly.

Shireen pulls back, smiling. “Good.”

“Your father’s sending me to Dragonstone,” Myrcella says, perhaps unnecessarily. “To reason with my uncle.”

“I know. He told me he would. I think he made a good decision. Lord Tyrion always seemed fond of you.”

“I’m not the little girl he once knew.”

Shireen takes her hand. “You’re not the little girl I once knew, either. But you are still Myrcella, and I’m willing to bet that while your uncle may not be the man you once knew, he’s still Tyrion.” She squeezes Myrcella’s hand. “I have faith in you.”

_ Good, _ Myrcella thinks,  _ because I don’t. _

  
  



	76. SANSA XV

Sansa waits on the docks, watching the rowboat cross the water and head towards her. The men inside it are dressed all in black, and as they get closer, one face among the rest stands out.

Jon.

She smiles at her brother, and beneath his beard, she can see him smile back. As soon as he climbs out of the boat, he strides up to her, wrapping her in a firm hug. 

“It’s good to see you.”

“And you. I’m sorry I missed your wedding.”

She shakes her head as they pull back. “Don’t be. You have more important matters to attend to.”

“Is he good to you?” Jon asks softly.

She nods. “Yes. He’s very kind.”

“Good.” As they head for the keep, he adds, “I’m sorry for the short notice.”

“You’re always welcome here,” she says sincerely. “Though I am curious--what brings you this far south?”

“Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sansa looks over at him. “What about her?”

He hesitates. “The Army of the Dead is coming. The Wall won’t hold them forever. Somehow, they’ll find a way through it. We need to defeat them...and the best way to do that is with fire.”

“You want her dragons,” Sansa realizes.

Jon nods. “Yes. Her dragons and her armies. We would stand a fighting chance against the Night King with them.”

“And if she doesn’t agree?”

“Then Dragonstone still sits on top of a mine of dragonglass, and with her permission, we can take it and forge weapons from it.”

Sansa considers this. “What if she doesn’t agree to that?”

“Then we’re fucked.”

The Royces greet Jon at the keep, welcoming him to Runestone and offering him and his men bread and salt. 

“We have great respect for the Night’s Watch here,” Lord Royce says over dinner. “My youngest son took the black some years ago.” His voice turns sorrowful. “He died on a ranging, I’m told.”

“He passed before I joined,” Jon says gently. “I believe he was given command of other rangers early on; an honor for someone of his age.”

“Do you know how he died?” Lady Royce asks, her voice quavering. “They never told us.”

Jon hesitates.

“Please,” she implores.

Jon chooses his words slowly. “When I was still living at Winterfell, we received word of a deserter from the Night’s Watch. As Warden of the North, it was my father’s duty to execute all deserters. He took us with him--my brothers and I--so that we might learn. On this day, the man he executed claimed that he had seen White Walkers. I later learned that that man had been ranging with Ser Waymar, and he had seen Ser Waymar and their brother fall to the White Walkers.”

“The White Walkers?” Lord Royce repeats incredulously. “What sort of  _ nonsense _ \--”

“It isn’t nonsense, Lord Royce.” Jon looks deadly serious. “They are real. I’ve seen them. I’ve fought them. And they are coming for all of us.”

The Royces are in shock. Sansa, who has already heard about the Army of the Dead from Jon, can only sit silently, waiting for someone to react.

“Lord Snow,” Lord Royce says, choosing his words carefully, “surely you can’t expect us to  _ believe _ that the White Walkers are real?”

“I know how it sounds,” Jon says in a tired voice. “I wouldn’t have believed in them either if I hadn’t seen them. But I have seen them, and I am here to tell you, my lord, that they are very real.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Andar asks. “To warn us of these...things?”

“No. I am here to ask a favor of my sister.”

That surprises Sansa, who thought Jon was only stopping to say hello before meeting Daenerys Targaryen. “A favor?”

“Aye.” He looks at her. “I would have you come with me to meet Queen Daenerys.”

_ That _ surprises her. “Why?”

“I told you; we’ll need her to win this war. And you’re a better negotiator than I am.”

Sansa bites her lip, glancing at the Royces. They’re all trading surprised looks. 

“Would it not be...dangerous?” Lady Royce asks hesitantly.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part in the realm’s affairs,” Jon reminds her. “Queen Daenerys has no reason to harm me, nor my sister.”

“Lady Sansa has a duty to her husband and her house,” Lady Royce says. “She can’t risk her life to negotiate with the Mad King’s daughter on behalf of your...grumkins and snarks.”

Sansa feels a flash of resentment at these words. “The Army of the Dead is real, my lady,” she says coldly. “And if they move past the Wall, my only duty will be to protect the living.” She looks at Jon. “I’ll go with you.”

He bows his head. “Thank you, Sansa.”

Lady Royce looks furious. “Sansa, you cannot go gallivanting off with your brother when--”

“When what, Mother?” Andar interrupts in a loud voice. “Sansa’s right; if this threat is real, then we must deal with it now. The Lord Commander is a man of honor, a trait shared by my wife. If they say the White Walkers are real, then they are real.”

Sansa feels her heart go out to Andar at that moment. She takes his hand, smiling at him. He looks at her, a fierce sort of determination on his face. “How soon do you intend to depart, Lord Commander?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Then we shall make sure Sansa is ready in the morning. Lady Poole?”

Jeyne, who has been silent up until now, looks up. “Yes, my lord?”

“Please see to it that my lady wife is packed and ready.”

“I will do it now.” Jeyne gets up, curtsying before exiting the hall. 

Lady Royce looks angry at her son’s talking-to, but Lord Royce pats her hand. “We trust you will take good care of Lady Sansa, Lord Commander.”

“I would never let any harm come to my sister.” 

.

Later that night, after dinner and after they’ve coupled in the hopes of conceiving a son, Sansa looks over at her husband. 

“Do you really believe in the White Walkers?”

He looks over at her. “Do you?”

“Yes. Jon wouldn’t lie, and he’s not stupid or mad. If he says the White Walkers are real, then they’re real.”

Andar nods, lying back to look at the canopy. “I thought as much.”

She props her head on her hand. “Thank you. For defending me earlier.”

He runs the back of his finger up and down her arm, still staring at the canopy. “My mother is desperate for us to have a son. She’s worried that the Targaryen woman will...feed you to her dragons or burn you alive or some such thing. She’d rather you stay here and bear a son.”

“And what would you rather I do?” she asks softly.

He does look at her at that. “Whatever you want.”

“You are so good to me,” she tells him. “Better than most men would be to their wives.”

“I told you I would try to make you happy,” he murmurs.

She kisses him, humming contentedly and settling against him. He strokes her hair, and it feels so nice that she falls asleep in moments.

.

In the morning, Sansa dresses in a burgundy wool gown, warm enough to protect her against the chill of the ocean’s winter winds. She eats a light breakfast, knowing she’s like to get seasick in a few hours. Jeyne bustles about, packing last minute necessities in preparation of the voyage. She’ll be accompanying Sansa, of course, as will Grey Wind, her most loyal protector.

“What do you think she’ll be like?” she asks excitedly.

“I don’t know.” Sansa wonders that herself. Daenerys Targaryen is an enigma, a person who hardly seems real. But she is, and in a matter of days, Sansa is going to meet her. 

When their things have been sent to the docks, Sansa and Jeyne don their cloaks and head out. Jon and Andar are already at the docks, the latter waiting to see off his wife. 

“My mother isn’t feeling well,” Andar says, rolling his eyes. “And my father was hard-pressed to leave her.”

So, Lady Royce still disapproves of Sansa’s going. That’s fine with Sansa; she cares about meeting Daenerys and negotiating an alliance than she does about pleasing her goodmother. 

Andar embraces her tightly. “Take care, my love.”

Her chest pangs at the endearment. It’s just that, she knows—an endearment. It doesn’t make it any less strange to hear. They haven’t been married long, and love, she knows, can take a long time.  _ Does he love me? _ Some part of her hopes not...because, truth be told, she doesn’t love him. Not yet. Not quite. 

“I will.” She pulls back, smiling at him. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I, you.” He kisses her hand, gloved as it is, and then steps back to release her. Jon and the brothers of the Night’s Watch help her into the boat, followed by Jeyne, and then they’re rowing for the ship. Already her stomach begins to turn.

“Sansa,” Jon says, and she tears her eyes from the churning sea to look at him. His face is serious. Intent. “Thank you. For doing this. I know it means leaving your husband and your home, but I could think of no one better equipped to negotiate with the dragon queen.”

Sansa is flattered by his words. “I’m honored you think so. Truth be told, I’m excited to meet the dragon queen.” 

“She may ask you to speak on behalf of the North,” he warns her.

“Then I will. I may be married to a Royce, but I am still a princess of the North and heir to the throne, and I have the nation’s best interests at heart.”

“She may ask you to bend the knee.”

Sansa raises her eyebrows. “I know no king but the King in the North, and his name is Stark.”

Jon smiles. “You’re a force to be reckoned with, sister mine.”

Sansa turns her eyes back to the sea. “You have no idea.”

  
  



	77. MYRCELLA IV

Trystane wrinkles his nose. “ _ This _ is Dragonstone?”

The castle mounted on the island is a stern, serious structure, it’s stone dark as night. Myrcella doesn’t think she’s ever been here—if she had, she doesn’t remember it. Looking at it now, she can’t exactly see her mother allowing her precious golden children to enter such a dank and dark place. Personally, she finds the castle beautiful, in a haunting sort of way, but she can see why Trystane doesn’t like it; having lived his entire life in a bright, colorful estate, of course he would find Dragonstone unwelcome. 

“Daenerys was born here,” Myrcella recalls loud. “She left an exile with nothing but the jewels her servants could carry. And now she returns with an army and three dragons.”

A boat rows them to shore, where men with skin darker than Trystane’s greet them. 

“What is your business here?” their leader asks in a halting, guttural accent. One of the famed Unsullied, she’s willing to bet. 

“I am Myrcella Martell of Dorne,” Myrcella says politely. “This is my husband, Prince Trystane. Tyrion Lannister is my uncle. I wish to see him.”

The man betrays no surprise, turning instead to utter something in High Valyrian. Myrcella only knows a little Valyrian, and none of it well enough to understand the rapid words falling from the man’s lips. He turns back to Myrcella and says in the Common Tongue, “We will take you to the keep and inform Lord Tyrion of your arrival.”

“I thank you,” she says sincerely. 

The Unsullied accompany her and Trystane up the beach and then up a seemingly endless stone path, one that zigzags and winds all over the place. Myrcella is glad to reach the keep, where they are shown to a private room and offered refreshment. Then they are left alone, though Myrcella is sure one of the Unsullied stands outside. 

“This place is gloomy,” Trystane complains. 

“I don’t think much sun reaches the island. Not like at Sunspear.”

“It’s not just that. The stone is dark, the sea pounds against the rock, there isn’t even the cry of gulls.”

She hasn’t considered that. There  _ is _ no gull song. She’s new to Dragonstone, but surely an island like this should have seagulls. She gets up and goes to the window, wondering if perhaps there  _ are _ gulls and she simply can’t hear him.

She does hear something, then, but it isn’t a seagull.

It’s like nothing she’s ever heard before. It’s a shrill cry, one that seems to vibrate. And it’s accompanied by a great flapping noise. 

A moment later, a great shadow falls over the ground, and in the sky, Myrcella can see it.

_ A dragon. _

Another dragon follows, and a third, and then all of them form a circle over the water, calling to each other in that shrill, strange way. From time to time, one of them will dive down into the water, swooping like gulls seizing fish. 

“Are those…?”

She looks over at Trystane, wide-eyed. “I think so.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “They’re so... _ big _ .”

“Did you think they would be smaller?”

He shakes his head. “No, I...I don’t know what I was expecting. I can hardly believe they’re real--even though they did kill my brother.”

She lays a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, my love.”

He shakes his head. “Quentyn should have known better. I loved my brother--I always have, and I always will. But he should never have tried to tame that dragon. The dragons answer only to those with the blood of Old Valyria.”

Myrcella says nothing. Privately, she agrees with Trystane--it was foolish of Quentyn to take on such a task. But she isn’t about to say that. 

The hinges of the door squeak, and when Myrcella turns to look, she feels her heart stop.

It’s her uncle in the doorway, but he looks so different from the last time she saw him. He’d been a young man then, his hair as gold as any Lannister, his face full of youth and joyfulness. His hair has darkened over the years, though it’s not nearly as dark as the beard--yes, the  _ beard _ \--that now adorns his face. A scar runs from below his right eye down across his cheek, and he seems to have aged ten years.

“Myrcella?” he says, eyes wide.

She nods, and then he’s hurrying towards her. She meets him halfway, swooping down to wrap her arms around him. He holds her tightly, his chest heaving, and unbidden, she begins to cry.

“Don’t you start,” he says sharply, his own voice thick with emotion.

She pulls back, looking at him through watery eyes. “You’ve changed so much.”

“So have you.” He gives her a small smile, holding her hands. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman.”

“You look rather dashing yourself, uncle.”

He snorts. “Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear.”

Remembering that they are not alone, Myrcella turns to look at Trystane. “Uncle, this is my husband, Trystane Martell.”

“A pleasure, my lord,” Trystane says, bowing.

“Likewise,” Tyrion says with a bow of his own. “Though admittedly a surprise--last I heard, you were betrothed to Shireen Baratheon.”

“I was,” Trystane admits. “But I did not love her.”

Tyrion looks between the two of them. “And you love my niece.”

“Yes.”

Tyrion smiles, squeezing Myrcella’s hand. “I’m glad.” He leads her back to the table, where he helps himself to some cheese and wine. “So, what brings you to Dragonstone? I assume it wasn’t just to see your dear old uncle.”

Myrcella glances at Trystane, nervous. “King Stannis asked me to speak with you.”

“Of course he did.” Tyrion, to his credit, does not look surprised or upset. “He wants you to convince Queen Daenerys to sail back to Meereen, is that it?”

“Something like that,” she admits, taking the seat across from him. “He felt I would have more luck talking to you than the queen.”

“Whether it’s me or Daenerys you speak to, the answer will be the same, sweetling: she has no intention of backing down.”

“I know.” And she does. It’s a fool’s errand Stannis has sent her on, trying to convince one of the most powerful people in the world not to take their birthright. 

“And yet you came anyway.”

“It wasn’t really a request on his part,” she clarifies. “I’m already in poor favor at his court, being the bastard daughter of Cersei Lannister and her kingslaying brother; marrying the princess’s betrothed hasn’t helped the situation any.”

Tyrion sets down his cup, looking sympathetic. “I’m sorry you had to learn the truth, sweetling. Truly, I am.”

She shakes her head, looking out the window. “My mother did terrible things in her life. Lying with her brother was the least of her crimes.”

“I do believe she truly loved him,” Tyrion says softly. “For what it’s worth.”

“I don’t think she was capable of love. Not normal love.” She looks back at him. “Uncle Jaime, Joffrey, Tommen, me...she loved the idea of us more than the actual people. And when we didn’t fit into that idea...she tried to hurt us.”

Tyrion is quiet for a long moment. “Bronn...told me about your mother. And Tommen.”

She looks up sharply. “What about them?”

“That they survived King’s Landing,” Tyrion says gently. “That she had them spirited away to Pentos and sent Bronn and Podrick to Dorne to retrieve you from the sept. He told me that she died in the process of Prince Trystane and the Sand Snakes liberating you.”

Myrcella closes her eyes. “Yes.”

“Tommen? Is he safe?”

“Yes.” She opens her eyes. “He wants to be a septon. He’s studying in Oldtown.”

Tyrion looks relieved. “Good. That’s probably the best thing for him, all things considered.” He sits back. “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through. You and Tommen were the sweetest children I ever knew, and you didn’t deserve anything that happened to you.”

She hesitates. “Uncle...did you really kill Joffrey?”

“No.” His voice is emphatic. “I had more reason than most, it’s true, but I would never kill my own nephew.”

“And Grandfather?”

He closes his eyes. “Yes. I killed him.”

“It’s too bad you couldn’t have killed him sooner,” Trystane mutters. “Then perhaps my Uncle Oberyn would still be alive.”

“Your Uncle Oberyn was a good man,”  Tyrion tells him. “He defended me when no one else would.”

Myrcella had liked Oberyn Martell. Where Prince Doran is stern and serious, thoughtful and quiet, Oberyn was fun and funny, the first to laugh and the last to anger. He’d spoiled his niece and nephews, knowing their father never would, and he’d always had a kind word for Myrcella. 

“My father was not a good man,” Tyrion says, turning back to Myrcella. “If your mother was incapable of love, she learned it from my father. Some of the things he did to me...I can’t speak of them even now. I killed him, yes, and I would do it again if I could.”

Myrcella accepts that. Her grandfather was never what she’d call a  _ loving _ man, what little she’d seen of him. He preferred to stay at Casterly Rock rather than go to court, and her father--Robert, King Robert--had never been overly fond of the Rock. When she had seen her grandfather, he’d been stern and serious, and he’d cared little for childish conversation; at most, he’d ask about her lessons and pat her on the head before moving on to something he deemed of more importance. And what Uncle Tyrion says must be true; her mother must have learned her behavior somewhere. 

“I only wanted to be sure,” she says softly. 

He reaches across the table, touching her hand. “You and Tommen are better than this family deserves. I hope you know that.”

“Tommen and I have cast off the Lannister name.” She shrugs. “I’m a Martell now, and Tommen...he is to be a septon with a new name.”

“That is just as well.” He leans back in his seat. “Who rules Casterly Rock now? I imagine a good number of our kin were killed by Cersei’s little stunt.”

“Martyn,” she tells him. “Uncle Kevan’s only remaining son. He married Lancel’s intended bride, Amerei Frey, so now he’ll inherit Darry as well.” She hesitates. “Will you take back the Rock? Once your queen has conquered?”

“My place is at my queen’s side, and like you, I am eager to cast off the Lannister burden. Martyn is welcome to Casterly Rock, and Darry.” He regards his niece. “You said  _ once _ my queen has conquered. Do you believe that she will, then?”

Myrcella glances at Trystane.

“Yes,” he says, speaking for both of them. “The last time three dragons came to Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms bent the knee for Aegon and his sisters. Daenerys is Aegon’s descendant, and she brings three dragons. How could she not take what her forebears won?”

Tyrion gives the younger man a small smile. “Does Stannis know you feel this way?” 

“No. He did not even ask.”  Trystane looks at Myrcella, giving her an encouraging nod.

She turns to her uncle, taking a deep breath. “Uncle...Trystane and I have been talking, and...we all know that if it comes to war--and it will--Daenerys will defeat Stannis. The Targaryens and Martells have been close allies ever since Daeron II wed Mariah Martell, and her brother wed another Daenerys Targaryen. Trystane’s own aunt was wed to a Targaryen, and his cousins were Targaryens as well as Martells. We don’t see a reason that House Martell and House Targaryen should not continue to be close allies.”

Tyrion regards them both for a moment. “Your brother Quentyn came to Meereen to woo Queen Daenerys, do you know that?”

“Yes, my lord,” Trystane says stiffly. “What happened was unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate. Yes. We were not sure if we could count on your father’s support after that.”

“House Targaryen can always count on the support of House Martell.”

“Can they? Because I seem to recall Queen Daenerys and her brother wandering the Free Cities for many years in the hopes that nobles would take them in, and your father did nothing  to aid them.”

Trystane’s face flushes, but Myrcella lays a gentling hand on his arm. “Prince Doran was slow to act, it’s true,” she says to her uncle. “But a wise man thinks before he acts. Even the full force of the Dornish army would not have been able to overthrow Robert Baratheon’s armies  had Prince Doran retrieved Daenerys and Viserys--who were little more than penniless children all their lives. If it was even suspected that the Dornish supported the Targaryens, Prince Doran’s hands would have been tied. Once he saw that Daenerys had an army big enough to take back the Seven Kingdoms, he sent Quentyn to honor the pact he and his sister made and bring the last Targaryen home.” 

Tyrion looks at her...and then smiles. “You’re every inch a lioness of Casterly Rock. Very well. I will speak to the queen and arrange an audience.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” she says sincerely.

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet, sweetling. We still have a long road ahead of us if we’re to put Queen Daenerys on the throne. You’re in the great game now...and the great game is terrifying.”


	78. ARYA XIV

When Arya returns from her morning ride, the yard is buzzing, and one name keeps passing from one set of lips to another:

_ Daenerys Targaryen. _

The dragon queen has landed on Dragonstone, or so they say, and means to take back the Seven Kingdoms. She could do it; she has Unsullied, the entire Dothraki nation, and three dragons. That’s more than Aegon and his sisters had, and still, they were able to bring the Seven Kingdoms to heel. 

The idea of a dragon queen excites Arya. The last of the Targaryens fled Westeros before she was even born, and what was left of them were two children with nothing to their names. But  now…

Now one of those children is a queen, and she has the world’s most formidable army at her back. Like her ancestors, she will take the Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood.

But one of those kingdoms is the North, and that’s where Arya’s admiration ends. Daenerys Targaryen will no doubt expect Rickon to bend the knee much as Torrhen Stark had so many years ago. And that frightens Arya. Will he do it? Or will he fight?

She wants her brother to fight; they all fought so hard to get him here, and for him to bend the knee now, after so long at war…

He won’t bend the knee. She knows he won’t. Rickon is too stubborn to bend the knee for anyone, even three dragons. He’s as wild as his wolf, and his people love him for it. 

When she gets inside the great hall, she finds her mother and brother sitting there, poring over a raven’s scroll with concerned faces. 

“What is it?”

“Jon went to meet with Daenerys Targaryen,” Rickon tells her, holding out the raven’s scroll. “And he wants to take Sansa with him.”

Arya snatches up the scroll, reading it herself. “To treat with her?”

“It seems that way.” Catelyn makes a “tch” sort of noise. “What is he thinking, dragging your sister along with him?”

“He says she’s a better diplomat than he is. Which is true,” Arya points out. 

“But this isn’t her fight,” Catelyn reminds her daughter. “He wants to speak with the Targaryen woman to ask her aid for the Night’s Watch. Sansa isn’t part of the Night’s Watch. She doesn’t even live in the North.”

“Mother, please,” Rickon says wearily. “I know you don’t like Jon, but he’d never put Sansa in danger.”

Catelyn purses her lips, as she always does when she’s confronted with her feelings for Jon. 

“Personally, I’m jealous,” Arya confesses, sitting down and reaching for the bread and cheese laid out on the table. “I wish I was going to meet the dragon queen.”

“Me too,” Rickon says. “I heard her dragons are as big as a ship.”

“I heard Quentyn Martell tried to tame one, so they burnt him alive.”

“I heard they eat whole cows for breakfast.”

“I heard that she hatched their eggs in a funeral pyre.”

“ _ I _ heard--”

“Yes, yes,” Catelyn sighs. “We’ve all heard incredible things about Daenerys Targaryen, and her dragons. Hopefully your brother and sister can make some headway with her.”

“What if they can’t?” Rickon asks. 

Catelyn swallows. “Then I imagine we’ll see the fire and blood for which the Targaryens are so famous.” 

Theon bursts into the room at that moment, his eyes wide. “Your Grace, my ladies...you’d better come quick.”

The Starks exchange surprised looks but follow Theon outside, wondering what on earth could have him so rattled. There’s a great deal of exclaiming in the yard, and a crowd of people surrounding something. They part for the king, and over Rickon’s shoulder, Arya sees a cart.

And sitting on that cart is Bran.

Catelyn lets out a cry, pushing past Arya and Rickon to climb onto the cart and wrap her arms around her boy. She shakes with sobs, thanking the gods for returning her son to her. Arya and Rickon also climb up into the cart, worming in to hug Bran around their mother. Arya hasn’t seen her brother since he fell from the Broken Tower all those years ago. He’s so different now. Taller. Stiffer. He doesn’t even raise his arms to hug them back, though perhaps that’s because they’ve pinned him down. 

Catelyn pulls back at last, touching her son’s face. “Where have you been?”

“That’s a long story.” His voice is deep and slow, and it pains Arya to realize that he’s truly a child no more. That sweet little boy she once knew fell from the Broken Tower, and sitting in their midst now is a man grown. He turns his head. “This is Meera Reed of Greywater Watch.”

Arya realizes that there’s a woman standing beside the cart; a woman she had not noticed until now. Like Bran, she’s dressed in furs and wears a tired expression on her face. She inclines her head. 

“Your Grace,” she murmurs at Rickon.

“Meera Reed...daughter of Howland Reed, I take it?” Catelyn asks, wiping away her tears.

“Yes, my lady.”

“I wouldn’t be here without Meera,” Bran says.

“Then we are most grateful to you, Lady Reed,” Rickon says. “Will you take bread and salt?”

“I will, Your Grace, thank you.”

.

When Meera Reed has been offered guest right and shown to a guest chamber, where she’ll be bathed and fed, Bran asks to go to the godswood. Theon carries him; already Maester Luwin is drawing up plans for a wheeled chair, one that would give Bran more mobility so he wouldn’t have to be carried everywhere. Arya, Catelyn, and Rickon follow, and when Theon sets Bran down on a root, Bran urges him to stay. 

“You’re part of this family, too,” Bran tells him. 

“Bran, what  _ happened _ ?” Catelyn asks. “Rickon says you disappeared with the Reeds, and Summer and Hodor, yet only Meera Reed has returned with you.”

Arya’s been wondering about that too. Summer would have never left Bran; even when he was asleep after his fall, the direwolf never left his side. A chill shudders down her back. 

“They died,” Bran says flatly, emotionlessly. 

Arya sucks in a breath. 

“Hodor, too?” Rickon asks, his voice cracking. 

Bran looks at him. “Hodor, too.”

“How?” Arya finds herself asking. 

So Bran tells them. 

He tells them about the Reeds coming to Winterfell and telling him he had a greater purpose. He tells them about the three eyed raven in his dreams, and about Jojen Reed’s own green dreams. He tells them about the journey north, beyond the Wall, and finding the true Three Eyed Raven...whatever that means. He tells them that Jojen Reed died to get him there. He tells them that the Three Eyed Raven opened his third eye and taught him how to see. He tells them about the Night King and the White Walkers, about the Children of the Forest, of the Night King marking him and finding him. He tells them how Summer and Hodor died to help him flee, how their own Uncle Benjen found him and Meera and brought them safely to the Wall. When he finishes, his mother, brother, and sister stare at him in shock. 

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he says gently. 

Arya trades a look with Rickon, and it’s clear that they’re thinking the same thing. 

_ He’s mad. _

“Bran…” Catelyn says uncertainly. 

“You asked. So I told you.”

“You spent all that time— _ years _ , even—learning how to...see the past?”

“It’s not quite as simple as that,” Bran says without emotion.

“But—“

“You can ask Meera, if you don’t believe me. I won’t try to prove anything to you. But I need you to trust me when I say that we are in danger. The Night King is coming, and it will only be a matter of time before he’s pushed past the Wall.”

Arya and Rickon exchange looks again. 

“And I don’t want it,” Bran says. 

“Don’t want what, sweetling?” Catelyn asks. 

“The crown. Rickon is thinking he should give me the crown because I’m older. But I don’t want it.”

Rickon’s face colors. “That was just a guess.”

“If you say so.” Bran is indifferent. “I can’t be King in the North anyway. I’m the Three Eyed Raven.”

“I thought the other one was the Three Eyed Raven,” Arya says in confusion. 

“He was. And now he isn’t. I am.”

Another look. 

“Ask Meera,” he says again. 

“Perhaps we will.” Catelyn reaches over, taking his hand in hers. “It’s good to see you again, darling.”

“Yes. And you.” But Bran doesn’t sound as if he’s glad to see her. He doesn’t sound like he has any emotion at all. He just...is. “I’d like to be alone for a while, if that’s alright.”

This is clearly not what Catelyn was expecting, but she nods. “Of course. As you wish.”

“I’ll stay with him, my lady,” Theon offers. 

“There’s no need,” Bran says. “Come for me when the sun begins to set.”

“That’s hours from now,” Theon reminds him. 

“I know.”

Theon hesitates, looking at Catelyn, but she nods. 

“As you say.” 

She gets up, gesturing for Arya, Rickon, and Theon to follow. They do, leaving Bran to stare at the heart tree. 

As soon as they’re inside, Catelyn ushers them into the study and closes the door. 

“What  _ happened _ to him?” Rickon bursts. “He’s... _ strange _ .”

“I don’t know,” Catelyn admits. “He seems...changed.”

“Traumatized,” Theon supplies. 

“Traumatized?”

He nods. “I’ve seen it before. When someone...experiences something horrible, they sort of...leave themselves. It’s like they’re hiding inside themselves.”

“What do you think happened to Bran?” Arya asks. 

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling we should speak to Meera Reed.”

Meera would know.

_ Unless she’s just as mad as Bran. _

“I will speak to Lady Reed,” Catelyn decides. “Perhaps she can shed light on Bran’s...behavior.”

“Do you think it’s true?” Rickon asks softly. “What he told us?”

“It can’t be,” Arya says, but she has her doubts. He’d seemed so... _ sure _ . So calm about it all. Can he really see the past? Can he truly warg into other creatures and see with their eyes? Such a thing shouldn’t be possible...but then, neither should the return of the White Walkers and dragons. 


	79. MYRCELLA V

True to his word, Tyrion secures an audience for Myrcella with Queen Daenerys. Myrcella dons her finest gown--not saying much, considering the haste with which she was summoned to King’s Landing, but still fine enough--and makes herself as presentable as possible before the audience begins.

_ You are a lioness of Casterly Rock, _ she tells herself.  _ You are a Princess of Dorne. You will not falter before the dragon queen. _

But as she and Trystane wait outside the great hall, her stomach twists into knots. It was her father, after all, who killed Daenerys’s father, her mother who married the Usurper, her grandfather who ordered the rape and murder of Elia Martell and her children. The Targaryen words are  _ Fire and Blood _ , and some part of Myrcella fears that that’s what Daenerys will demand of her. 

The doors open, and Myrcella and Trystane enter, walking forward and then kneeling before the throne. Myrcella glances up and sucks in a breath. The throne is enormous, carved into the stone that must have been here before the keep itself was even built. And sitting on it is the dragon queen herself.

She’s a beautiful woman; the rumors have not exaggerated. Her hair is molten silver, tumbling down her shoulders in braids and curls. Even from this distance, Myrcella can see the violet of her eyes. She wears a polite expression, ringed hands clasped in her lap. Her dress is black, and across her chest she wears a silver chain. Elegant, but severe. 

“Your Grace,” Tyrion says from the side of the dais. “May I present my niece, Princess Myrcella Martell, and her husband, Prince Trystane Martell of Dorne.”

“Princess Myrcella, Prince Trystane. Rise,” Daenerys commands in a lilting voice. 

They do, Myrcella smoothing out her skirt. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nods, giving her a small smile. “Your uncle speaks fondly of you. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Her eyes flicker to Trystane, and the smile fades. “Prince Trystane, I am so sorry for the loss of your brother. I was not with him when he met my dragons. I was taken away from the city; I only learned of his death after I returned. It grieves me more than I can say.”

Trystane bows his head. “Thank you, Your Grace. I loved my brother, but I cannot pretend he did not act out of foolish bravado. He should have known better.”

Daenerys bows her own head. “As you say. So what brings you to Dragonstone, my lord and lady? Surely you are not going to attempt to marry me, too?”

“I am happily wed, Your Grace,” Trystane assures her, taking Myrcella’s hand. “But I would pledge the support of Dorne if you will have it.”

Daenerys raises her eyebrows. “Truly?”

“Truly. House Martell has been a leal friend of House Targaryen for some time now. My aunt was married to your brother; their children were my cousins. My father even tells me that he and Princess Elia had planned to marry my sister Arianne to your brother Viserys. We are closely tied, you and I.”

“That is true,” the queen allows. “But if you will forgive me, Prince Trystane, why should I believe you? Dorne did not come to my aid once during my exile, and you are married to a Lannister.”

Myrcella tenses. So, there it is. 

“Forgive  _ me _ , Your Grace,” Trystane says tensely, “but what did you expect my father to do? Dorne is but one of the Seven Kingdoms; even our army is not enough to go against the armies of six other kingdoms. We could not have restored you and your brother to the throne without being defeated in war. And if we had supplied any other aid, money or shelter or any such thing, Robert Baratheon would have found out and had my father killed for a traitor. He is not so foolish as to risk his life and yours for an ill-fated rebellion.”

The hall is silent for a long moment as everyone stares at Trystane.

“Forgive my husband, Your Grace,” Myrcella says, stepping forward. “Though he speaks bluntly, he speaks truly; Prince Doran wanted to wait until he was sure victory would be yours. As for my birth, I must confess to some surprise, seeing as how you have employed my own uncle as your Hand.”

Daenerys leans back in her throne. “Your father killed mine.”

“Why must I pay for my father’s crimes? I did not even know he was my father until recently. Believe me, Your Grace, I take no pleasure in the truth of my birth. I was happy to marry Trystane and take the Martell name to blot out the Lannister one.” Her voice quavers. “My family...has done terrible things, as I’m sure my uncle has attested. And like my uncle, I am not proud of those terrible things. I believe you are the rightful Queen of Westeros and I would use what power I have to put you on the throne, but if the stain of my birth is too much for you, I will happily return to Sunspear and wait out the war.”

There is another long silence, and Myrcella wonders if perhaps she’s gone too far. But Daenerys turns to Tyrion and says, “You’re right--though she looks a delicate flower, there is a lioness hewn from the rock beneath.” She turns back to Myrcella. “I would be honored to accept the support of Dorne--and of you, Princess Myrcella.”

Myrcella releases a breath.

“How many Dornishmen can we expect?” Tyrion asks Trystane.

Trystane considers. “Immediately? Ten thousand. We can muster more, but it will take time.”

“Do it,” Tyrion urges. “Write to your father and ask for ten thousand men now and the rest as soon as they can get here.”

Myrcella feels a trill of excitement. They’re going to war. They’re really going to fight Stannis, and with dragons on their side, they’ll be unstoppable. 

  
  



	80. SANSA XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment moderation has been turned back on because some of y'all are demons and I'm too tired to put up with this misogynist bullshit.

Sansa looks up at the keep with wary eyes. It looms over her, its turrets and towers reaching to the sky. The dragonlords built this castle hundreds of years ago, when Daenys the Dreamer saw the Doom of Valyria before it even happened. The Targaryens had come here with their dragons and their slaves and all their wealth, and after a century of biding their time, Aegon and his sisters mounted their dragons and flew for Westeros, where, in true Valyrian fashion, they conquered all that lay before them. 

And now their descendant is here, ready to conquer all that lies before her, too. 

The boat rocks over the waves and Sansa closes her eyes, clenching her teeth as she breathes in through her nose. It’s almost over; in just a few moments, she’ll be on land again. 

Grey Wind noses at her hand, and opening her eyes again, she strokes his head. He’s been a comfort to her on the voyage; she finds that petting his thick fur takes her mind off of her seasick belly. 

As they get closer to shore, she sees men waiting on the beach. Their skin is nut-brown, their armor black steel and leather. When the brothers of the Night’s Watch jump out to push the boat onto the beach, the men do not help; they only stare, waiting.

Jon helps Sansa and then Jeyne down from the boat, swinging them both onto the sand. Grey Wind leaps out on his own, regarding the men with curious eyes.

“Who are you and what is your business on Dragonstone?” one of the men asks with an Essosi accent. 

“I’m Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon introduces himself. “This is my sister, Sansa Stark. We’ve come to speak to Queen Daenerys.”

The man looks suspicious. “We will take you to the castle. First, you must hand over your weapons.”

Jon does so without hesitation, nodding at his men to do the same. Some of the men--who Sansa now realizes must be the famed Unsullied--take their weapons with emotionless faces.

“This way.” The one who spoke to them leads them up the beach. Sansa’s legs wobble on the uneven ground, and she takes Jon’s arm to steady herself. Her heart is pounding, anxious to see this dragon queen at last. The pounding only gets worse as they walk up a set of stairs and then travel up a winding walkway. It isn’t helped by Sansa’s sea legs, which carry her slowly and unsteadily. She’s panting by the time they near the keep itself, and it’s as she’s looking down, wiping the sweat from her brow, that she hears a familiar voice.

“Well, if it isn’t the Bastard of Winterfell.”

She looks up and sees, to her surprise, Tyrion Lannister, watching them with a small smile. He looks different now; his hair is darker, and his face is covered with a thick, brown beard. There’s a scar on his face, too, and Sansa wonders where he got it.

Jon stops, regarding the other man. “If it isn’t the bastard of Casterly Rock.”

“I’m not a bastard, bastard.”

“Weren’t you the one who told me all dwarves were bastards in their fathers’ eyes?”

Tyrion cracks a grin, and Jon does the same.

“Good to see you, Jon,” he says, coming down the steps to meet them. He shakes Jon’s hand. “I see you’ve survived the Night’s Watch.”

“More than survived it; I’m Lord Commander now.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Are you? What happened to Mormont?”

Jon’s face turns grim. “He died. Killed by his own men.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “A shame. I liked Lord Commander Mormont immensely. He was a good man. But he has an excellent successor.”

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”

Tyrion’s eyes move to Sansa. “Lady Sansa, I’m surprised to see you here.”

“As I am to see you,” she counters. “You were serving as Joffrey’s Hand when last I saw you.”

“And now I serve as Queen Daenerys’s Hand. My state of affairs have improved immensely.” He looks between the two siblings. “What, may I ask, brings you both here?”

Jon heaves a sigh. “I need to ask the queen a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

Jon looks at Sansa with something like a desperate expression. Sighing, she tuns to Tyrion. “It’s going to sound very strange.”

“Consider my curiosity piqued.”

“The White Walkers are...real,” she says, feeling foolish even as she says it. “They’re gathering an army. They breathe life back into the dead and make them footsoldiers for their army. And they are coming for us. The Night’s Watch wants Queen Daenerys’s aid in defeating their army.”

A stunned silence follows.

“My lady,” Tyrion says slowly. “You realize…”

“How ridiculous it sounds, yes, I know,” she says quickly. “It sounds ridiculous to me too, but Jon wouldn’t lie to me.”

Tyrion turns back to Jon. “You’ve seen them?”

Jon nods. “I’ve fought them. I’ve watched them kill men and raise them from the dead again.”

Tyrion is quiet for a moment, and Sansa despairs of him ever listening to her. But then he says something that surprises her.

“Lord Commander Mormont wrote to the small council when I served as Hand. He wrote that a dead man rose again and could only be stopped with fire.”

“Aye,” Jon says eagerly. “I was there. Burnt my hand.” He takes off his glove to show his hand, which does indeed have a pink, glistening burn mark. “Fire is one of the ways we can kill them. Dragonglass is another, and Valyrian steel. Regular steel does nothing. Even cutting them apart doesn’t stop them; remove a man’s hand from his arm, and the hand will still crawl on the floor.”

Sansa shudders at this. 

“My sister and the rest of the small council laughed when Mormont wrote to us,” Tyrion confesses. “But I told them all that Lord Commander Mormont doesn’t lie. I didn’t know what to make of his message. But now…” He doesn’t have to finish.

“We need Queen Daenerys’s help,” Jon urges. “Dragonstone sits on top of a mine of dragonglass, and she has three dragons. With her help, we could defeat the Army of the Dead.”

Tyrion considers this. “I can speak to the queen...but I cannot guarantee anything. The dragonglass shouldn’t be a problem, but lending her dragons to your cause...that might be another matter entirely. She has to know that it will be as much in her interest as it will be in yours.”

“It is in  _ everyone’s _ interest if the Army of the Dead decimates the realm,” Sansa points out. “She came here to rule, did she not? Who exactly is she going to rule if the Army of the Dead kills everyone?”

“And after the war?” Tyrion poses. “After she’s helped you defeat the Army of the Dead, what then? Will you acknowledge her as your queen? Or will you simply use her as a means to an end?”

Sansa purses her lips. That is the question, isn’t it? By rights, Daenerys  _ should _ be queen, and if she helps them defeat the Night King’s army, then she would have more than earned it. But what if she wants Rickon to bend the knee? And what happens if he refuses?

“The Night’s Watch takes no part in matters of the realm,” Jon says in his most diplomatic voice. “We are forbidden from declaring our support for this queen or that king.”

“Have you not asked for support from the rest of the realm?”

“Begging your pardon, Lord Tyrion, but the rest of the realm doesn’t have dragons,” Jon points out. 

“The North will fight with the Night’s Watch,” Sansa says. “And if they fight, so will the Vale and the Riverlands.”

“But it isn’t enough,” Jon adds. “We need as much help as we can get. For every one of our men that falls in battle, that’s another soldier to fight for the dead. We can’t do this on our own. We need Daenerys.”

Tyrion looks at Sansa. “Lady Sansa, you are not of the Night’s Watch. Would  _ you _ support Daenerys as queen if and when she’s defeated this army of the dead?”

Sansa hesitates.

Tyrion shakes a finger. “There it is.”

“I  _ would _ ,” she says quickly. “But only if she allowed the North to remain sovereign.”

“She will never allow that.”

“Then I cannot support her as queen, not when Stannis has already acknowledged the North’s independence.”

“Then why are you here?” he asks, not unkindly.

“Because Jon asked me to come,” she admits. “And...because I wanted to see her for myself.”

“You shall have that opportunity soon. I will speak to the queen,” Tyrion promises. “In the meantime, may I offer you some refreshment?”

.

A servant shows their party to the great hall, where they are brought savory pies and ale. Now that she’s off the ship, Sansa’s appetite has returned, and she helps herself to the pies. 

“Lannister’s right; why should the dragon queen help us when nothing’s in it for her?” one of the men asks glumly. 

“This is the woman who freed every slave in Slaver’s Bay,” Jon reminds him. “She cares about people. And if she learns the extent of the Army of the Dead’s power, she’ll want to help.”

But privately, Sansa worries that Jon’s man is right. Daenerys will want all seven of the kingdoms, not just six, and she’ll want to know that she’ll be acknowledged as queen when the war is won. Why should she fight the Army of the Dead only to fight Stannis and the North after?

.

When the plates have been cleared, Tyrion returns. 

“Queen Daenerys will see you now,” he tells them, an unreadable expression on his face. They follow him into the receiving chamber, where two of the Unsullied pull open the great doors.

Sansa will give Daenerys this: she certainly knows how to impress. The dragon queen sits on a throne hewn out of rock, so big and so extraordinary that it almost seems to hold some strange magic. The queen herself is unlike any woman Sansa has ever seen before. It’s more than just the silver sheen of her hair or the violet sparkle in her eyes. Something about her is ethereal, almost immortal, though Sansa can’t put her finger on  _ what _ . 

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys of the House Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.” 

“Your Grace,” Tyrion says, stepping forward. “May I present Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and his sister, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“Welcome, Lord Commander Snow, Lady Stark,” the queen says in a voice like music. “House Targaryen has always been a friend of the Night’s Watch.”

“You have, Your Grace,” Jon says humbly. “I had the honor of serving alongside your kinsman, Maester Aemon Targaryen, at the Wall.”

The queen looks surprised. Sansa doesn’t blame her; this is news to her, too. “Aemon Targaryen?”

“Aye,” Jon answers. “He was the son of Maekar and the older brother of Aegon V. I’m told he was close to your brother Rhaegar, with whom he corresponded when he had his sight.”

“I take it he’s no longer with us?” she asks softly.

Jon shakes his head. “I regret to say he is not, Your Grace.”

Daenerys bows her head. “A shame. I never knew of him until now.” She clasps her hands in her lap. “Lord Tyrion tells me you are here to ask for my help against this...Army of the Dead?”

“Yes, Your Grace. As you said, House Targaryen has always been a friend of the Night’s Watch.”

_ Cleverly done, _ Sansa thinks in admiration, giving her brother a small smile. 

“We have,” Daenerys agrees. “But I confess I do not know what to make of this Army of the Dead, Lord Commander. I find it difficult to believe such a tale.”

“I understand that,” Jon allows. “There was an old woman at Winterfell who’d sit with us when we were children, telling stories of the White Walkers and their ice spiders and giant hounds. I always thought they were stories meant for frightening us children; I never would have believed in these creatures if I hadn’t seen them myself, if I hadn’t fought them myself.”

“Forgive me, Lord Commander, but you are a Stark, are you not?”

Jon stiffens. “I am a Snow, Your Grace.”

“But you are the son of Ned Stark, which makes you brother to the King in the North, Rickon Stark.”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“So why should I believe you?” she asks bluntly. “How do I know this isn’t an elaborate plan to lure me north, kill me, and ensure Stannis’s place on the throne?”

“The King in the North is my brother, aye,” Jon says heatedly. “But we brothers of the Night’s Watch put aside our old lives when we take the black, and we do not interfere in matters of the realm.”

“So you say.”

“What could he possibly have to gain from killing you?” Sansa asks, unable to hold her tongue any longer. 

Daenerys’s eyes land on her, and Sansa feels suddenly warm. 

“I imagine the Night’s Watch can be a difficult life. The King in the North would have the power to free a brother of the Night’s Watch from his vows and make him a lord, would he not?”

“No one has that power,” Jon bites out. “I chose the Night’s Watch, and I will wear black until my dying day.”

“Ned Stark was a man of honor,” Tyrion supplies. “That is a trait he passed onto his children, including Jon.”

“A man of honor who fathered a bastard.”

Sansa feels herself getting angry. “You’re right, I suppose not all of our fathers can be honorable. Some of them burn men alive.”

She can practically feel the room hold its breath as she stares down Daenerys.

The dragon queen, to her surprise and relief, drops her shoulders. “You’re right. My father...was not a good man. On behalf of House Targaryen, I apologize for his actions against your family. Your grandfather and uncle did not deserve the end he gave them.”

Sansa glances at Jon and then nods at Daenerys. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys hesitates. “Forgive me, Lady Sansa, but may I ask...why are you here? You are not part of the Night’s Watch.”

“I’m not,” Sansa admits. “But my brother asked me to accompany him because he feels I’m…”

“Better at speaking to highborns,” Jon finishes.

A smile flickers across Daenerys’s face. “I see. And you believe in this Army of the Dead also?”

“Jon wouldn’t lie,” Sansa assures her. “Like my father, he’s honorable to a fault. If he says the Army of the Dead is real, then it’s real. And we need your help. The realm needs your help. The Night’s Watch doesn’t have the men to defeat the Army of the Dead. Even the North’s combined forces won’t be enough. But you have dragons, and a mine of dragonglass at your disposal. With these, we could defeat the Army of the Dead.”

Daenerys considers her. “And after?”

Sansa was afraid of that. “Jon cannot support you as queen because the Night’s Watch takes no part—“

“I’m not asking about Jon.”

Sansa debates whether she should be honest. “Will you make my brother Rickon bend the knee?”

“I will give him a choice,” Daenerys says calmly. “Bend the knee, or burn.”

Bile rises in Sansa’s throat. “Then the North will not support your claim.”

“So why should I help you? If the Army of the Dead truly comes, the North will be the first to perish.”

Sansa eyes her for a long moment, choosing her next words carefully. “I don’t believe you’re that heartless.”

“No?”

“No.” Sansa shakes her head. “You struck the chains from every slave in Slaver’s Bay. You had the opportunity to attack King’s Landing on your way here, but you didn’t. It wouldn’t have been hard, with your armies and your dragons. But you didn’t want innocent people to die.”

Daenerys lowers her eyes. 

“Innocent people are going to die if you don’t help us. Whole families are going to perish. And when they do, the Army of the Dead’s ranks will swell. The Night King plans to take over the world, and he will if we give him that chance. You were introduced to us just now as the Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. What sort of protector would you be if you left us all to face the greatest enemy we will ever know on our own?”

Daenerys is quiet for a long moment. 

“You make a compelling argument,” she says at last. “But I hope you will understand why I hesitate to help you. Assuming this threat is real—and that’s a strong assumption—it sounds to me as if the people I would help would turn their backs on me as soon as they didn’t need my help anymore.” 

And...well, Sansa understands that. “Your Grace, my family fought hard to put my brother on the throne and to keep him there. We swore we’d never bend the knee to another southern ruler. It would dishonor us to go back on our oath.”

“Your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, submitted to my ancestor. Why shouldn’t Rickon Stark do the same?” 

“Your ancestor burnt his enemies to ashes. Torrhen Stark submitted out of fear. Not because he wanted a southern ruler. Not because he loved him or believed in him. And the North has resented it ever since. They will resent you, too, if you threaten us with fire and blood.”

“We don’t have time to bicker and squabble over who sits on a chair,” Jon says wearily. “There won’t be anyone left to sit on that chair if we don’t stop the Night King.”

Daenerys looks at them, considering. Then, “Bring me proof.”

Jon blinks at her. “Proof?”

“Yes. Proof. I want to know that this threat is real before I march my armies and fly my dragons up North.”

Sansa and Jon trade looks. 

“What...sort of proof?” Sansa asks uncertainly. Even she’s never seen any evidence. 

“The Lord Commander says he’s fought these creatures. Surely he can bring one to me?”

Sansa gapes at her. “These  _ creatures _ are dangerous! What you’re asking of Jon is suicide!”

But, quietly, Jon says, “I can do it.”

She stares at him, aghast. “Jon…”

“It won’t be easy,” he allows. “But I think I could do it.”

“ _ Jon _ —“

“She’s right,” he says wearily. “She needs to know that the threat is real before she sends her armies to fight it. Rickon, Stannis, all their men...they’ll need proof before they agree to fight. I have to go and bring one back.” 

Sansa gapes at him. “But…”

He turns back to Daenerys. “I will bring you proof, Your Grace. And I hope seeing it will make you understand my urgency.”

She bows her head. “Very good, Lord Commander. In the meantime, Lady Sansa, you will be my honored guest.” 

Sansa glances at Jon. “My brother can take me home on his way to Eastwatch--”

“It wasn’t a request,” Daenerys says, albeit gently.

Sansa can feel her heart start to beat faster. “You want to keep me here?”

“I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if you remained at Dragonstone.”

Sansa looks at Jeyne, whose own eyes are wide. She turns back to Jon, shaking her head. “No. No, I won’t...I won’t be a prisoner again…”

“You will not be a prisoner,” Daenerys clarifies. “You will be--”

“A guest?” Sansa snaps. “Guests can leave whenever they want.”

“Nevertheless, you will be my guest and you will remain here until your brother returns,” Daenerys says firmly. 

Sansa shakes her head, tears blurring her vision. “No. I won’t do it.”

“My lady,” Tyrion says, stepping forward. “It won’t be like last time. You will not be mistreated here, I swear it. Queen Daenerys only wants to ensure that there are no plots against her.”

It makes sense, but Sansa doesn’t know if she can bear being a captive again. They could use her for leverage against the North; it wouldn’t be the first time. And Rickon would have to make the impossible choice--fight the dragon queen to save his sister, or let his sister rot in the dragon queen’s clutches.

“If there are no plots, you have nothing to fear,” Daenerys says softly. “I swear on the lives of my dragons, no harm will come to you if none comes to me.”

That gives Sansa pause. Daenerys is called the Mother of Dragons; according to the stories, she hatched the eggs herself, hand-feeding the dragons until they were old enough to feed themselves. That she loves them is beyond dispute, and to swear on their lives…

Well. It doesn’t make Sansa’s captivity any better. Joffrey had needed her alive, and look how that had gone.

“Sansa,” Jon murmurs, and her heart sinks. She knows what he’s going to say.  “This is important.”

“I’m your sister,” she says weakly, but she knows it’s no use. 

“And I swear I will let no harm come to you,” he promises. “I swore to your family, and I am a man of my word.”

Sansa bites her lip. She knows there’s no use arguing with him. He needs Daenerys’s help. They all do. 

“Make it quick,” she relents at last.

He relaxes. “I will. I promise.” He turns to Daenerys. “I am entrusting my sister to your care, with the understanding that when I return with proof of the White Walkers’ existence, she will be free to go.”

Daenerys inclines her head. “I swear.”

Sansa only hopes Daenerys is a woman of her word. 

  
  



	81. THEON XVII

The winter winds howl past the window, rattling the shutters. Theon listens to the noise for a while, willing his mind to calm. But it’s no use; his thoughts are as loud and persistent as the wind outside.

He turns on his side, staring at the wall. The tapestry that hangs there is meant to insulate the room and keep it warm. He’s never paid much attention to it before. It’s an ocean scene, a ship’s prow pointing up to the sky as the ship sails over huge, billowing waves. A man stands at the prow, shield in one hand and sword in the other. The men behind him are also armed, but their swords point up; the man’s is thrust forward, urging them forward. 

He doesn’t even know who made the tapestry or how it got here. Surely he must have chosen it for its nautical nature...but there again, someone else could have chosen it for him, knowing his ironborn roots. But who would have chosen it? Jeyne?

He rolls onto his back, jaw clenching as he stares at the ceiling.

_ Jeyne. _

He’d known parting with her would be difficult, but he hadn’t been prepared for the aching loneliness he’s felt every day since. He thinks about her all the time, remembering her laugh and her smile and wondering what she’s doing now. He’d felt reassured, at the very least, that she was with Sansa.

But this news about Jon taking Sansa to Dragonstone has perturbed him. Where Sansa goes, Jeyne is sure to follow, and if she’s truly with the dragon queen…

Well.

Starks don’t do well in the south. Rickard and Brandon Stark had died at the Mad King’s own hands, and now their granddaughter and niece is with his daughter. This isn’t even to mention Sansa, Arya, and Ned’s experiences in the capital when Robert was king. What’s to stop Daenerys from hurting Sansa...and by extension, Jeyne?

It isn’t that he doesn’t care about Sansa, because he does, but he’s not as worried about her. Sansa is an important person; she’s heir to the King in the North, and someday, her son will inherit Runestone. If Daenerys isn’t as mad as her father, she’ll see the value in such a prisoner and keep her to serve her own means.

But Jeyne...Jeyne is a nobody. She’s all that remains of a lesser house, and absolutely nothing would change if she died. Daenerys could use her to hurt Sansa, but that would be the extent of Jeyne’s significance. He remembers, not for the first time, how easily Cersei had disposed of the younger woman, sending her to Littlefinger’s brothel when she became a problem.

His jaw clenches harder. He won’t let that happen to Jeyne. Not again. He won’t let anything happen to her.

_ But what can I do? _ He is only one man, and bound to the King in the North. Jeyne is all the way on Dragonstone at the mercy of a warrior queen. 

Unable to calm his mind, Theon gives up, getting out of bed and donning a cloak. He makes his way to the one person he knows can ease his mind.

All that Bran had told them was confirmed by Meera Reed. Maester Luwin had met with her and Bran separately and decided that, while Bran’s behavior is odd at best, he and Meera do not seem to display any signs of ordinary madness.

“So it’s true then?” Arya had asked with wide eyes. “The Three Eyed Raven and everything?”

“I find it hard to believe,” Maester Luwin had admitted. “But I see no reason why they should lie to us, nor do I think they’ve fooled themselves into believing a delusion.”

Theon still doesn’t know what to make of it all. The Bran he knew was both oddly serious and prone to Old Nan’s tales, but he wasn’t a liar. The story Bran told them and Meera confirmed seems too fantastical to be real, but how could they both believe it if it isn’t real?

Pushing these thoughts from his mind, Theon knocks on Bran’s door. To his relief, he hears the younger man say, “Come in.”

Bran is sitting by the fire, that unnervingly placid expression on his face. Theon takes the seat opposite him. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.” 

Theon hesitates. “Jeyne...is she...alright? Can you see her?”

Bran does something very strange then; his eyes roll back in his head until all Theon can see is white. He’s like that for a few moments, and then his eyes roll back to normal.

“She’s with Sansa on Dragonstone,” he says calmly. “She’s alright. She’s sleeping in a bed beside Sansa. Grey Wind is with them.”

Theon’s shoulders sag in relief. If she’s asleep, then she’s alright. 

Right?

“You love her,” Bran says, still in that calm voice.

There’s no point denying it. “I do.”

“But you can’t be together.”

“No.”

Bran nods, turning to stare into the fire. 

“Can you see the future?” Theon asks, curious.

“No. I can only see the past and the present.” Bran turns back to him. “Daenerys Targaryen is not a bad person. She’s not mad like her father. She won’t hurt Jeyne.”

“But what if she does?” 

“She won’t.” Bran’s eyes flicker back to the fire. “But it isn’t Jeyne you should worry about.”

Theon’s heart races. “No?”

“Jon is sailing back to Eastwatch. He’s going to go beyond the Wall and bring a wight to Daenerys Targaryen to convince her to fight the Army of the Dead.” 

Theon gapes at him. “You’re sure?”

“I saw him,” Bran says calmly.

“ _ How _ did you see him?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Theon considers this. There’s no guarantee that what Bran sees, or claims to see, is true. But if it is…

“If Jon succeeds, it will change everything,” Bran says. “If other people see the wights for themselves, they’ll know the threat is real. They’ll know that we have to fight.” He pauses. “Rickon should head south. To meet with Stannis and Daenerys. Your sister should come, too. All the kings and queens in Westeros need to discuss this together.”

Theon rubs his jaw. “I don’t know if they will.”

“They must,” Bran insists. “I will talk to my brother, and you...you should talk to your sister.”

Theon doesn’t know how to do that. How is he supposed to summarize all that’s happened in a simple raven’s scroll? What if Bran isn’t even right?

“You don’t have to tell her everything,” Bran says, as if reading his mind. “But she should be there.”

Theon sighs. “I don’t know, Bran.”

“Do it, Theon. For the love you bear my family. For the love you bear your sister and Jeyne. The Army of the Dead will take them all if we don’t act.”

He closes his eyes and nods. “I’ll write to her. But I can’t promise anything.”

“I know.” 

  
  



	82. SANSA XVII

For the first two days spent on Dragonstone, Sansa refuses to leave her room. She’s angry and hurt, and she doesn’t trust herself to be civilized. Instead, Jeyne takes care of everything, from bringing Sansa her meals to sending for a hot bath. If she were less angry, Sansa would thank Jeyne, or maybe even apologize; as it is, she can only offer a stiff nod before spewing another hateful speech about the dragon queen. 

On the third day, Sansa is staring angrily out the window, waiting for Jeyne to return from walking Grey Wind, when the door opens. She doesn’t look up at first, expecting her companions, but she startles when a Lorathi accent says, “Is that the way you greet me after all this time?”

She looks up, her mouth falling open when she recognizes her old friend.

“Shae!”

The other woman smiles, holding out her arms; Sansa runs to her, falling into the other woman’s embrace. She breathes hard, unable to believe that Shae is really and truly here. 

“I thought you were dead,” she admits. “I thought you’d died when King’s Landing was destroyed.”

“I was long gone by then,” Shae says, pulling back to look at her. “You are a woman now. I hear you are married?”

“Yes,” Sansa says with a small smile. 

“He’s nicer than Joffrey?”

“Much nicer.”

“Good.”

“What are you  _ doing _ here?” Sansa asks, leading Shae to the window seat. 

“I’m Tyrion’s lover.”

Sansa gapes. “You’re  _ what _ ?”

“I was a bad handmaiden; you know that,” Shae laughs. “You think I was assigned to you by accident? Tyrion and Lord Varys sent me to you so I could be close to Tyrion. His father would have killed him if he found out he was keeping a woman at court, so he had to find a place for me.”

“That explains a lot,” Sansa admits. “But...didn’t he know that you helped me escape from the city?”

“No. It wasn’t his business.”

Sansa smiles. “He’s your lover, though.”

Shae shrugs. “It wasn’t his business. He did plenty of things that he never told me about.”

“Does he know now?”

“No.”

Sansa squeezes her hand. “I’ve missed you. You were the only person who was truly kind to me in the Red Keep.”

“You deserved kindness,” Shae says emphatically. “Tyrion told me why you’re here. He keeps saying you’re not a prisoner, you’re a guest. I told him guests can leave whenever they want.”

“That’s what I said!”

Shae shakes her head. “Daenerys insists, so Tyrion insists.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a way you could help me escape again,” Sansa only half-japes. 

“The Queen would kill me.” She strokes Sansa’s hair. “But I swear to you, I will not let them hurt you.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Daenerys is no Joffrey, or Cersei. She’s a good person.”

“Who holds her guests captive.”

“She has no reason to trust you,” Shae points out. “You have to give her one.”

Sansa bites her lip. “But what if  _ I _ can’t trust  _ her _ ?”

“Then she can’t trust you either. Someone has to bend first. You know what happens to things that don’t bend?”

“They break.” Sansa considers. “But what can I do?”

“Stop hiding in your room, for one thing. Try to get to know her. Send a message to your husband that you’re safe and let Varys read it first so she knows you have nothing to hide.” 

This is all reasonable. Sansa can do that. 

“Can you help me?”

Shae smiles. “Of course.”

.

Sansa does as Shae prescribes; she writes a short letter to Andar assuring him that she is well and remains an honored guest of Queen Daenerys while Jon sails north. Shae delivers it to Varys for inspection, and then the other woman shows Sansa and Jeyne to the great hall for dinner. 

Daenerys and Tyrion are obviously surprised to see Sansa, but not displeased; Daenerys has a chair drawn up beside her, a place of honor for her northern guest. Jeyne sits further down with the lesser lords and ladies, shooting an encouraging look at Sansa as she does. 

“I’m honored to have you dine with us tonight, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says, and she truly sounds it. 

“The honor is mine, Your Grace.” She always remembers her courtesies, and if she could remember them around Joffrey, she can remember them now. “I apologize for being so reticent earlier.”

“I realize how difficult the situation must be for you,” Daenerys hastens to assure her. “I had not realized that you were newly married when you came here. You must miss your husband.”

Truth be told, Sansa doesn’t. Not really. She hasn’t spent enough time with Andar or at Runestone for her to miss them. She misses her family and Winterfell, but not Andar and Runestone. 

“Ser Andar Royce, is it not?” Tyrion asks, attempting a stab at conversation. 

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe I ever met Ser Andar; but I trust he is a kinder man than my nephew.”

Sansa allows a small smile. “It isn’t hard to be.” 

Tyrion smiles back. “Speaking of, I believe you know my niece, Princess Myrcella.”

Sansa looks down the table and is surprised to see a golden-haired woman who, upon closer inspection, is indeed Myrcella Baratheon. A Dornishman sits beside her, and Sansa guesses that this is Myrcella’s husband, Trystane Martell. 

“Princess Myrcella,” she greets with some surprise. “I did not know you were at Dragonstone.”

“I did not think to be here,” Myrcella admits. “Stannis sent me...rather unexpectedly to treat with my uncle.”

“I see.” So, Stannis thought he’d make headway with Daenerys by sending one Lannister to another. Is Myrcella a captive here, too? An honored guest who isn’t allowed to leave? Sansa determines to find out. 

“It was considerate of Stannis to reunite me with my niece,” Tyrion says. “In fact...the last time  I saw her was the last time I saw you, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa takes a sip of wine while she chooses her next words carefully. “I believe you are right, my lord.”

“We wondered where you’d got to,” Tyrion says in a deceptively neutral voice. “And how.”

Sansa doesn’t dare look at Shae. “Does it matter now, my lord?”

He gives her a small smile. “I suppose not. Still...I am curious.” To a confused Daenerys, he says, “Lady Sansa mysteriously disappeared from King’s Landing the day Myrcella left for Dorne. A riot had broken out, and we’d thought her lost to the mob...until we had word that she was safe and sound in Riverrun with her mother and brother.”

“I didn’t know that,” Myrcella says with interest.

“We didn’t make it known. Can you imagine how embarrassing that was for us? Losing not one, but  _ two _ little girls in the securest city in the Seven Kingdoms?” Tyrion shakes his head. “Father was furious.”

“How did you escape?” Daenerys asks, curious.

“I had some friends,” Sansa says vaguely. 

“Why were you in King’s Landing to begin with?” the dragon queen continues.

Sansa takes another sip of wine. “Robert Baratheon asked my father to serve as his Hand. He brought me and my sister Arya with him. Cersei…”  She hesitates, unsure how ill she can speak of the former queen in front of her daughter and brother.

“Cersei set in motion the events that led to his death,” Tyrion fills in. “Thus putting Joffrey on the throne. When Ned Stark threatened to reveal the truth of my sister’s children’s true father, Cersei had him arrested for treason. He was brought before the Sept of Baelor to confess his alleged crimes. From there, Joffrey was meant to mercifully pardon him and send him to the Wall to take the black so as to not further anger Robb Stark and his army of Northmen.” Tyrion hesitates.

“He killed him,” Sansa says. Cold. Detached. “He cut off his head and put it on the Red Keep’s walls and made me look at it.” She closes her eyes, pushing the memory from her mind. “I was still betrothed to Joffrey, and now that my brother was in open rebellion against the crown, I was also a hostage. Joffrey tormented me and had his Kingsguard beat me in front of the court whenever my brother’s forces defeated the Lannister armies.” She forces a sour smile at Daenerys. “So when the opportunity presented itself to escape, I took it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Daenerys murmurs. “And I understand now your reticence at remaining here while your brother sails away. But have no fear, Lady Sansa; I swear you will not be beaten while you are under my protection.”

Beaten, no...but fed to the dragons?

.

After dinner, Sansa makes for her room, but Daenerys stops her. 

“Would you care to join me in my private chambers?” the other woman asks with an eager look on her face. “I thought perhaps we could...talk, without so many ears listening in.”

“I would like that,” Sansa says honestly. She follows Daenerys up a winding staircase to her rooms, where the dragon queen pours them glasses of Dornish red. 

“The Martells sent a shipload of this,” Daenerys says almost apologetically. “I’ve been foisting it on everyone every chance I get. Though Lord Tyrion has drunk nearly half of it on his own.”

“That sounds right,” Sansa says with a smile, accepting the glass from Daenerys.

The other woman takes the seat across from her.  “I hope you know that I was in earnest when I said no harm will come to you. I, too, know what it is to be sold and held to serve a brother’s needs.”

Sansa is surprised at the dragon queen’s bluntness. 

“My brother sold me to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army,” Daenerys says, swirling the wine in her glass. “He told me that he would let all forty thousand men in Drogo’s khalasar rape me, as well as their horses, if it got him his throne.”

Sansa looks away. “That was cruel of him.”

“Yes. He was a cruel person.”

“Jon isn’t like that,” she feels the need to say. “He’d never hurt me, or let anyone hurt me.”  _ But he left you here. _

“I’m glad to hear it.” Daenerys hesitates. “His name is Snow, is it not?”

“Yes. He’s my half brother.”

“Yet you’re still close?”

“We didn’t used to be,” Sansa admits. “My mother hates him, and I avoided him because it pleased her. It was different for the boys; they did everything together, and my sister Arya was always too wilful to do as my mother bid. But I was the perfect daughter, and my mother didn’t want me sullying myself with the company of my baseborn brother.” She takes a deep sip of wine. “It wasn’t until my father and brother Robb died that I...I don’t know. I realized the differences in our birth didn’t make me better than him. It just made me trueborn.”

“How did your brother Robb die?” Daenerys asks softly.

“He was betrayed by his bannerman,” Sansa murmurs. “Killed in his bed while he slept, with his wife beside him. The traitor’s son rode to Winterfell and tried to force me to marry him.”

Daenerys shakes her head. “How terrible.”

“It seems like nothing compared to your trials,” Sansa counters. “I’ve heard the Dothraki are savages.”

“To a certain point of view,” Daenerys allows. “They are great warriors, and they do not place value on the same things we Westerosi do. To them, we seem trivial and insignificant. They only give respect to shows of strength and courage.”

Sansa raises her eyebrow. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but…”

“How did I earn their respect?” Daenerys asks with a smile.

“Well, yes.”

Daenerys sets down her glass and kneels beside the fire. She rolls up her sleeve, and, looking straight at Sansa, plunges her hand into the flames.

Sansa cries out, slamming her own glass on the table before flinging herself to the ground. “Your Grace!”

“It’s alright,” Daenerys assures her, holding up one hand to keep her back. She withdraws her hand from the flames and shows it to Sansa. It looks untouched, as if it had never been inside a fire at all. But it  _ was _ , Sansa  _ saw _ it. 

She looks up, gaping, and Daenerys smiles. 

“Fire cannot kill a dragon.”

“But…”

“I don’t know how it happened,” the dragon queen admits, pulling her sleeve back down to her wrist and returning to her chair. “I know plenty of my ancestors succumbed to flames. But it’s  never hurt me. I walked into Khal Drogo’s pyre and hatched my dragon eggs. When the Dothraki khals came together to decide if they should kill me or let me remain amongst the Dosh Khaleen, I burned down their hut and emerged from the flames. All of Vaes Dothrak saw me that night, and they all bent their knees to me. From that day forth, I became their khaleesi of khaleesis. They saw that flame could not harm me, and they saw that I rode a creature greater than a horse--a dragon. That is why they follow me.”

Sansa bows her head. “That explains the Dothraki...but how did you come by the Unsullied?”

Daenerys smiles. “When Khal Drogo’s pyre burned, I had only a handful of Dothraki left. Many of the others had left with the new khal, and those that remained were women and children and old people unable to keep up. We wandered the Red Waste for days. Finally, we came to a great city called Qarth. There, we...acquired some gold. Not much. I knew I would need an army if I was to take back the Seven Kingdoms, so we set sail for Astapor. There, I saw the injustices committed against the Unsullied, as well as the other slaves reared by the masters. I made a trade with Master Kraznys--all of his Unsullied for one of my dragons. But Good Master Kraznys did not know that dragons have no masters. The Unsullied razed the city, striking the chains off every slave and killing every master. I offered them the choice to walk away or stay with me--it is the choice I offer everyone who serves me. They chose to stay with me, and together, we liberated all of Slaver’s Bay.” 

Sansa cannot help but feel impressed. But still… “And the people of Westeros?” she asks softly. “Will you give them the same choice?”

Daenerys looks at her sharply. “Yes.”

Sansa leans forward. “And what happens to those who walk away?”

Daenerys looks away. “Fire and blood.” But even as she says it, her heart doesn’t seem in it.

Sansa slips out of her chair, kneeling before the dragon queen and taking her hands. “The Dothraki and the Unsullied follow you because you showed strength and mercy. You are a better queen than any khal or master that they had followed before. Give the people of Westeros the same choice. A  _ real _ choice, not the threat of death if they do not follow you. Send your forces north and help us defeat the Army of the Dead. Let the people see that you will fight  _ for _ them--not against them.”

Daenerys leans forward. “And then what? Your brother will bend the knee?”

Sansa’s frustration must show on her face, because Daenerys withdraws her hands and leans back. “You have a way with words, Lady Sansa, but they are just that: words.”

Sansa could cry. “You pride yourself on being a merciful savior, but if you abandon us to the White Walkers, you’ll be as cruel and vindictive as Joffrey.” She rises, storming towards the door. 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys calls, and Sansa turns back to look at her.

The dragon queen looks calm. “I am not without mercy, but I am also the blood of the dragon. My ancestor conquered the Seven Kingdoms, and I have come to reclaim all of them. How they fall under my claim is entirely up to them.”

Sickened to her stomach, Sansa leaves the room, angry tears streaming down her face.

.

Jeyne is already asleep when Sansa returns to her room. It makes no matter; Sansa undresses by herself before climbing into bed beside her friend. She lies there for a long moment, staring at the canopy. 

“How was the queen?” Jeyne mumbles.

“Everything was fine, at first. But then talk turned to the North and bending the knee and...I left angry.”

Jeyne hums. “Mustn’t do that.”

“I know, but she threatened to set fire and blood on the North if Rickon doesn’t bend the knee!”

“Let her and Stannis have their war. If she survives, you can deal with her after.”

“But  _ how _ ?”

Jeyne shrugs, turning her head to look blearily at Sansa. “You’re clever. You’ll think of something.”

Sansa only wishes she had her friend’s confidence in her abilities.


	83. ARYA XV

“You’re sure?” Catelyn asks sharply.

“Yes,” Bran says, his own voice calm and undisturbed. “I saw it.”

Arya glances at Rickon out of the corner of her eye. He looks troubled, and she can well understand why; she, too, is feeling apprehensive about Bran’s message.

“What if you...saw something else?” Rickon asks uneasily. “What if you saw...I don’t know…”

“I saw Jon sailing away and Sansa held at the dragon queen’s court.”

“Why do you say it like that?” Arya asks. “‘Held’?”

Bran turns his glassy eyes towards hers. “Because Daenerys will not let her leave until Jon has returned.”

“What?” Catelyn’s voice is even sharper this time. 

Bran looks at her. “You already know this.”

She sputters. “I  _ know _ this?”

“You received a raven from Lady Royce that Sansa had gone off with Jon.”

“Bran, that is  _ very _ different from Daenerys Targaryen holding her captive!” Catelyn cries. “Jon had written of his intentions to bring Sansa with him, but not to leave her at the mercy of the dragon queen while he went gallivanting north!”

“Is she alright?” Arya asks frantically. “Sansa?”

“She’s unhappy. But unharmed.”

Catelyn has to walk away, pressing her knuckles to her mouth, but even they cannot stop the words that spout from her mouth. “Curse Jon Snow!” she shouts. “He gave no thought to your sister’s safety or wellbeing! He left her a prisoner of the most dangerous woman in the world while he goes north to hunt  _ wights _ . I know,” she adds, raising a hand when Arya starts to protest. “I know he is your brother and you love him, and I have tried to make my peace with that...but I will never,  _ ever _ forgive him this. Do you know what happened the last time a Stark met with a Targaryen?”

Arya lowers her eyes. She knows. They all do. What remains of their uncle and grandfather lies in the crypts.

“She is in danger,” Catelyn says, her voice breaking as tears stream from her eyes. “My girl is in danger…”

“We’ll go rescue her,” Rickon says, leaping to his feet.

This only makes Catelyn cry harder.

“Bran says we must go south anyway to persuade Daenerys and Stannis to come together and fight for the living. Perhaps we can reason with Daenerys and make her release my sister.”

“You cannot reason with a dragon,” Catelyn protests, but even she seems to be thinking it over.

“We can’t abandon her,” Arya says softly. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Catelyn closes her eyes and nods. “Rickon, you are our king...what we do is your decision.”

“I decide that we go south and meet with the Targaryen queen,” he says at once. “We’ll have to sail if she is on Dragonstone; we can ride to White Harbor and acquire ships from Lord Manderly there.”

Catelyn inclines her head. “As you say. I will make the arrangements.” She leaves the room, still sniffling.

“Why do you think Jon did it?” Arya asks softly. “Left Sansa there, I mean?”

“He had no other choice,” Bran says simply. “We need Daenerys to win this war.”

“I know. But…”

“We’ll rescue her,” Rickon promises. “I won’t let anything happen to Sansa.”

Arya gives him a small smile--but inside, she knows that not even the King in the North can stop the dragon queen.


	84. SANSA XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is rated M and involves drunk sex, so please navigate accordingly.

Despite her frustration with Daenerys, Sansa learns to enjoy her time on Dragonstone. Jeyne and Shae are an enormous comfort to her, and Myrcella and Trystane prove to be useful distractions. With an endless supply of Dornish wine at their disposal, the Martells invite Sansa and Jeyne to their chamber often for drink and conversation. Trystane, by far the most playful of the four, likes to find games to entertain them; they usually end up being a children’s game with a drinking spin. His favorite is a game he calls Bed, Wed, Behead, where one person is given three names and has to list them in order of what they’d like to do to each one.

“Lady Sansa!” he shouts when it’s her turn. “Bed, Wed, Behead...Tyrion Lannister...my wife Myrcella...and...Daenerys Targaryen!”

They all laugh at the ridiculous collection of names. Sansa’s still smiling as she considers her options.

“Hmm...I would never  _ presume _ to marry Myrcella when she is so happily wed to you,” she teases. “Therefore, I will bed her.”

“An excellent choice,” Trystane says with a grin, kissing his wife.

“Which leaves...Daenerys and Tyrion.” She thinks. “Wed Daenerys...which is unfortunate, as I would have to behead Tyrion.”

“Why Daenerys over Tyrion?” Jeyne asks, intrigued.

“I don’t know,” Sansa admits. “I suppose...Daenerys is more...pleasant to look at. Meaning no offense to Tyrion,” she says hastily. 

“She is very beautiful,” Myrcella agrees, but she and Trystane share a smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Myrcella lies.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, only…” Myrcella bites her lip. “Do you like the company of women, Sansa?”

Jeyne chokes on her wine. Sansa furrows her brow. “Well, yes.”

“No,” Jeyne rasps. “She’s asking...if you like women the way you like men.”

“I don’t…”

“She’s  _ asking _ if you fall in love with women and lie with them,” Jeyne says, red-faced.

Now it’s Sansa’s face that turns red. “Oh. N-no, I…” But she trails off because...well, there had been that time with Jeyne. It had been the only time another person had made Sansa...well. Come. Andar has never made her come, and more often than not, Sansa will wait until he’s asleep before finishing herself. 

But that doesn’t mean anything. Just because of that one time...and just because her husband can’t…

She turns even redder.

“Sansa Stark!” Myrcella crows. 

“I don’t know!” Sansa wails. “I...I was only with a woman once and it...it wasn’t...it wasn’t like that…” She valiantly avoids eye contact with Jeyne. 

“I fingered her,” Jeyne says candidly.

“Jeyne!”

“What? It’s the truth.” Jeyne turns to Trystane and Myrcella. “It was only once, and I was showing her how to pleasure herself.”

“Do  _ you _ like women?” Trystane presses, interested.

“I find women much more beautiful than men,” Jeyne says, and Sansa realizes that her friend is drunk. “But I don’t like sex.”

“Why not?”

“I had a bad experience,” Jeyne says shortly. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Trystane says sincerely. He trades another look with Myrcella. “But if you ever wanted to have a  _ good _ experience…Myrcella and I have been admiring you for some time. Both of you.”

Sansa flushes. “Oh. That’s...very kind of you.”

Myrcella giggles. “You don’t have to say yes. We won’t be offended. We just thought we’d offer.”

Fleetingly, Sansa imagines it, her legs entwined with theirs, soft sighs and moans and cries of ecstacy. The thought makes her warm, and she drains her cup in an effort to quell the stirring between her legs.

They go back to their game after that, and as the wine flows, the answers become sillier and sillier. Sansa finds herself in stitches when Jeyne gives Myrcella Daenerys’s three dragons and Myrcella provides detailed explanations as to why she would bed, wed, and behead each one. 

The hour is late when they all decide to put a stop to the merriment and go to bed. Sansa and Jeyne spend far too long trying to stand up and falling back down again, giggling madly, and Trystane and Myrcella insist that they stay in their chamber.

“I promise we will do nothing untoward,” Trystane assures them. “I only worry you won’t be able to make it back to your chamber.”

He has a point, so Sansa and Jeyne fall asleep on the blankets and cushions laid by the fire. Sansa drifts in and out, the wine making her sleep light. 

She doesn’t know how long she’s been sleeping or how late in the night it is when she hears noises from the bed...and though her experience in this area is, well,  _ limited _ , she knows exactly what those noises are. She feigns sleep, trying desperately not to hear Trystane and Myrcella making love. They are, for their part, being quiet, but Sansa can still hear them.

_ This is what it sounds like when it’s with someone you love, _ she realizes.  _ Or at least, someone who can make you come. _ These aren’t the sounds of a dutiful coupling, an attempt to conceive an heir to an old and noble house. These are the sounds of two people who make love because it feels good, because they like to do it. 

Her curiosity--among other things--is aroused. Turning her head, she opens her eyes just enough to see what they’re doing.

They’re lying down on the bed, Trystane spooning his body around Myrcella’s from behind. It’s obscene, what they’re doing, but Sansa is unable to tear her eyes away. Myrcella’s breasts are tipped in a soft, rosy color, heaving as she pants. Tendrils of her beautiful, golden hair stick to her forehead, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her body. Sansa cannot help but watch the way their bodies join, him inside her, and she wonders why her couplings with Andar are never that full of passion.

_ Is Myrcella right? Do I like the company of women? _

She’s heard of people like that before. Lord Renly, for one. And she knows that women will do it sometimes to please men. But could  _ she _ be like that?  _ The Seven-Pointed Star _ preaches against such things...but the old gods say nothing of the matter. And there are plenty of things that  _ The Seven-Pointed Star _ preaches against that people do anyway and are not seen as a crime. Could finding women attractive truly be a sin? 

It would certainly explain why Sansa likes Andar but doesn’t feel any love or passion for him. And why the only person to ever make her come was Jeyne...though that may also be for lack of exposure. Perhaps she is only incompatible with Andar and isn’t really attracted to women. 

_ There’s only one way to find out. _

She sits up, reaching for her cup and taking a steadying sip of wine. Myrcella becomes aware of her; she looks at Sansa with hooded eyes, a smile on her face.

“My love,” she says breathlessly. “I believe Lady Sansa is considering our offer.”

Trystane pauses, looking up as well. He smiles when he sees Sansa. “Well, do you want to join us, Lady Sansa? Or would you prefer to watch?”

Sansa pushes herself up on trembling legs. Trystane and Myrcella hold out their hands, pulling her onto the bed. They make quick work of her dress, peeling off layer by layer, until she’s stripped down to her shift. This she removes herself, tugging the white fabric over her head until she is completely bare.

“Beautiful,” Trystane murmurs.

Sansa licks her lips. “I don’t know what to do…”

Myrcella pulls her down beside her. “Whatever you want.”

.

When Sansa wakes in the morning, it’s with a throbbing head and a mouth full of cotton--or so it feels. The light in the room hurts her eyes, and she rolls onto her side with a groan. 

It’s only then, her naked body touching Myrcella’s, that she remembers the events of the night before.

Shame might rise in her were she not feeling the effects of last night’s wine. Swallowing back her nausea, she slips out of the bed, careful not to wake either of the Martells. Luckily, neither of them stir, and Sansa dresses quickly and quietly. This done, she wakes Jeyne, who squints up at her with disapproval.

“Come on,” Sansa mouths, helping her friend to her feet. Jeyne is clearly unhappy to be woken, but she stumbles after Sansa, down the corridor and into their room. As soon as the door is closed, Jeyne flops on the bed and falls back asleep. Deciding that Jeyne has the right idea, Sansa joins her, pulling a pillow down over her eyes to block out the light.

.

It’s hours later when she wakes again. The throbbing in her head and the turning in her stomach have lessened, but she still feels ill. She rectifies this with a long swig of cold water. There’s some bread left out on the table, and after a few bites, she dips a cloth in the basin and then returns to bed, laying it over her forehead. 

“Harble,” Jeyne says. Or at least, that’s what it sounds like she’s saying. 

“Gunf,” Sansa agrees.

The bed shifts as Jeyne rolls over. “Why did we drink that much?”

“Because we’re idiots.”

Jeyne sniffs. “Do you smell that?”

“What?”

Jeyne keeps sniffing--and then lifts Sansa’s hand and lowers her face to it. Too late, Sansa realizes what she’s doing; by the time she yanks back her hand, Jeyne looks at her with an awed expression.

“You--!”

“I was drunk!” Sansa defends. Which is true, but…

Jeyne tilts her head. “Is this...because of what Myrcella asked you last night? About liking the company of women?”

Sansa opens her mouth to respond--and bursts into tears. 

“Oh, Sansa,” Jeyne murmurs, wrapping her arms around the other woman. 

“I don’t think I like men,” Sansa wails. “Not...not in that way.”

“That’s alright,” Jeyne assures her. 

“But it’s  _ wrong _ .”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because... _ The Seven-Pointed Star _ says it is!”

“There are plenty of things in that stupid book that people aren’t supposed to do but they do anyway. Besides, you’re of the North--your gods are the old gods.”

“My mother…” Sansa shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. I’m...gods, I’m  _ married _ .” It shames her to think it, but she had actually forgotten until just now. She had been dimly aware of it last night, but now, smelling of the sex she had with two people who weren’t her husband...she feels shame and regret. “Andar…”

“Your marriage is a political alliance, not a love match,” Jeyne reminds her. 

“But he’s my husband, and I swore to be faithful, and I broke that vow last night.” She feels sick again. 

Jeyne pulls back, looking into Sansa’s eyes. “You aren’t the first woman to stray from her marriage bed, and you won’t be the last. It’s  _ alright _ . No one need ever know.”

“Trystane and Myrcella know,” she reminds her friend.

“They aren’t going to tell anyone. And if they do, you can always deny it. Rumors spread all the time.” Jeyne strokes her cheek, brushing away her tears. “You’ll feel better after a bath. I’ll have one drawn for us.”

“Us?” Sansa asks tentatively. “You...don’t mind that I’m…?”

Jeyne grabs her face. “Sansa. You are my truest friend. You stood by my side and lied for me when I killed Wyl. You accepted me even when I’d been living as a whore.”

“You couldn’t help that,” Sansa protests.

“And neither can you help this,” Jeyne counters. “You truly believe I’d think any less of you because of who you love?”

Sansa’s eyes sting with fresh tears.

“Do you need any moon tea?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Alright. Let me send for that bath.”

Sansa reflects, not for the first time, that she doesn’t know where she’d be without her friend.

.

A bath does make Sansa feel better, and it also gives her time to think. 

Though she’d been drunk the night before, one thing becomes clear: she vastly prefers the company of women to men. This doesn’t, she tells herself, need to matter. It explains why she’s never really enjoyed herself with Andar, but when all is said and done, he’s still her husband, and it is her duty to provide him with an heir. Multiple heirs, really. Her mother gave her father five children; everyone will be expecting her to birth a similar number. She can find women attractive from a distance, admiring them discreetly but giving her body to no one else but her husband. And as for her night of unfaithfulness...well, no one need know. It was only one night. Hadn’t her father been unfaithful to her mother early in their own marriage? He’d gotten a son out of it...but there’s no danger of that for Sansa. She’d made sure of that.

After their bath, Sansa and Jeyne take Grey Wind on a walk outside. Though Daenerys has been kind enough to allow the direwolf to roam freely, he doesn’t like being far from Sansa or Jeyne, and his eagerness to be outdoors is evident in the way he trots ahead of them, sniffing and marking his territory on nearly everything.

As the three of them pass the crest of a hill, Sansa sees, too late, that they’ve stumbled upon Queen Daenerys and a man she does not know. The two of them look at the intruders, their faces guarded.

“I apologize for disturbing you, Your Grace,” Sansa says, reaching for Grey Wind. “We did not know you were here.”

“You haven’t disturbed me; you are free to go anywhere on this island,” Daenerys says gently. 

The man at her side eyes Grey Wind. “That’s a direwolf, unless I’m sorely mistaken.”

“Yes, but he’s tame,” Sansa assures him.

“Ser Jorah,” Daenerys says, “this is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

The man named Jorah looks at her with wide eyes. “Sansa Stark of Winterfell? Ned Stark’s daughter?”

“That is me,” she confirms. “Are you from the North, ser?”

“I am. Of House Mormont.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open. “Mormont! I know your family well. Lady Lyanna is betrothed to my brother, Rickon.” It occurs to her, then, that she’s heard of Jorah Mormont before. He’d sold poachers to a slaver, and her father had banished him as a result. A bitter disappointment for Lord Jeor, to have his only child make such a mistake. He’d taken the black and left Bear Island to his sister Maege.

“I have never met my cousin Lyanna,” Ser Jorah says gently. “But if she is anything like her mother, I hope your brother is prepared for her strong will.”

“May I ask what you are doing here, ser?”

“Ser Jorah is my oldest and truest friend,” Daenerys says, looking fondly at the man. “He is recently returned from the Citadel, where he was cured of greyscale.”

“Truly?” Jeyne asks with interest. 

“The novice who treated me was...unconventional,” Ser Jorah says with a small smile. “I may be responsible for his expulsion, but I will always be in his debt for the service he rendered me.” He inclines his head again. “May I ask what brings  _ you _ here, my lady?”

Sansa hesitates. “It’s...a bit of a complicated story.”

“Her brother wants my help in defeating the White Walkers,” Daenerys says with an unreadable expression. “He’s gone north to bring me proof.”

Ser Jorah raises his eyebrows. “Truly?”

“He’s seen them,” Sansa says, trying not to waver. “They are coming for the living.”

Ser Jorah considers her. “Who is your brother, Lady Sansa?”

She swallows. “My half brother. Jon Snow. He’s the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Ser Jorah’s eyes widen. “The last I heard, my father was Lord Commander.”

“I do not know what happened to your father,” Sansa apologizes. Everyone knows that a Lord Commander holds his position until his death, and if Jon is Lord Commander now…

Ser Jorah is at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Daenerys says softly, laying a hand on his arm. 

Ser Jorah shakes his head. “I’ve been dead to him for some time now. We haven’t spoken in years.” 

Sansa is spared having to make any other remark by the approach of Lord Varys. 

“A raven came for you, Your Grace, from Eastwatch.”

Eastwatch. Jon must have sent it. But why he sent it to Daenerys and not to Sansa…

Daenerys unfurls the raven’s scroll. Her face goes from curious to pained.

“What is it?” Sansa asks, feeling her heart race. 

Daenerys looks up at her, the pained look growing even more so. “Your brother and the men he took with him...are surrounded by wights. One man got away to relay the message. They ask for my help.”

Sansa’s heart is thundering in her ears. “And...and are you going to give it?”

Daenerys hesitates, and Sansa feels tears pricking at her eyes. 

“Your Grace,” she says, her voice cracking. “My brother did this for  _ you _ . He risked his life to bring back proof  _ for you _ . If he dies, you will have killed him as much as those wights.”

“Guard your tongue,” Ser Jorah warns, but Daenerys raises a hand. 

“No. She’s right.” She bites her lip. “No help that I send will arrive in time...unless…” She lifts her eyes to the sky, where her ever-present dragons are flying.

“Daenerys…” Ser Jorah says, still in a warning tone. 

“My dragons can fly to Jon Snow faster than any ship can sail or horse can ride.”

“You cannot do this.”

“I agree with Ser Jorah,” Varys pipes up. “If we should lose you now…”

“I will never leave Drogon’s back.”

“You cannot go alone--” Ser Jorah protests.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have my dragons,” Daenerys reminds him. “But you may accompany me if you are so concerned.”

“It would put my mind at ease if I could, Your Grace.”

She nods. “Very well. We leave within the hour.” And then, to Sansa’s surprise, she takes her hands and looks straight into Sansa’s eyes. “I will save your brother, my lady. I swear it.”

“Thank you,” Sansa whispers.

Daenerys actually kisses Sansa’s hand then, never breaking eye contact. Warmth shoots up Sansa’s arm, and then Daenerys, Ser Jorah, and Varys stroll back towards the castle to prepare for the departure. 

Jon was right all along. She’s a good person who wants to help those who need it.

Sansa only hopes Daenerys’s help won’t arrive too late.


	85. THEON XVIII

Dragonstone looms high above them, casting a shadow over the boat. Rickon’s face tips back in awe, taking in the sight of the dragon queen’s home. 

Theon also looks up, but for a different reason.

He doesn’t see any dragons.

Does Daenerys expect them? Are her dragons lying in wait, ready to strike at her signal? 

_ Are Jeyne and Sansa alright? _

His question is answered when the two women appear on the beach. Theon, Brienne, Andar, and the two sailors accompanying them hop out, pushing the boat onto the shore. Rickon and Arya spring out of the boat and onto the shore as soon as possible, but Lady Catelyn waits for Andar to help her out of the boat before they also make a beeline for Sansa.

The Starks surround Sansa, but Theon only has eyes for Jeyne, standing off to the side. Her face breaks into a smile at the sight of him, and he thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He wraps his arms around her, holding her tight to his chest. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs into her hair.

“I missed you.”

His chest aches, and it’s all he can do not to deposit Jeyne in the boat and sail back north with her. He restrains himself, letting go of her before anyone’s suspicions can become too aroused.

“Are you alright?” Catelyn is asking her daughter, her voice sharp.

“I’m fine,” Sansa says, but she looks pale and wan. “She hasn’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s gone. Jon’s in trouble, she went to help him.”

“We should go,” Catelyn insists, taking her daughter’s hand and starting to lead her towards the boat. 

But Sansa doesn’t move. “We can’t.”

Catelyn looks at her daughter, aghast. “Sansa, she has kept you as her  _ prisoner _ , and now she’s gone--this is your chance to leave! To go home, where you belong!”

Sansa shakes her head. “She left to save Jon. And if he succeeded, then she may be convinced to help us in the war. If I leave now, she won’t want to help us at all.” She looks around at her family. “How did you know I was being held here?”

The Starks exchange looks. How will they tell her about Bran?

“That’s a long story,” Arya decides at last. “We’ll tell you over a bite to eat--I’m famished.”

“Me too,” Rickon declares. 

“I’m sure accommodations can be made.” Sansa takes Andar’s arm, leading her family up to the castle. Theon and Jeyne fall behind, hands brushing. 

“Are you alright?” he asks her. 

“I’m fine. Truly.” She glances over at him. “How...are you?”

“Better, now that I know you’re unharmed.”

She smiles, and his chest aches again.

Sansa takes the party up a winding walkway and into the castle proper, where a man Theon nearly doesn’t recognize greets them.

“Lady Catelyn,” the man says, sounding grimly pleased. “What an honor to see you again.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Catelyn says crisply, and Theon’s mouth nearly falls open. It’s Tyrion Lannister alright, though changed with time; the pale gold of his hair has darkened into bronze, and his once smooth face now bears a scar and a thick brown beard. “I should have known you would be here.”

“Why is that, my lady?” he asks politely.

“Because you have always preferred to ride the coattails of someone stronger and more powerful than you.”

“Mother,” Sansa warns. “Lord Tyrion has been nothing but kind to me since my arrival here. I apologize for my mother, my lord,” she says, turning to Tyrion. “My family was concerned for my welfare and came to assure themselves that I was alright. Perhaps rooms could be found for them while we wait for Queen Daenerys’s return?”

Tyrion bows. “But of course. I will see what can be done. We all know how dearly the Starks value hospitality.”

Catelyn’s face goes white, her jaw stiff, but Tyrion saunters away before she can say anything. 

“What was that about?” Rickon asks.

“Mother kidnapped him and tried him for crimes he didn’t commit,” Arya informs her brother.

“Arya!”

“It’s true,” Arya protests. 

Catelyn doesn’t have a retort for that. 

.

Sansa takes her family to a private room, summoning a maid to bring them food and drink. Theon stands outside, ensuring that no one with ill intentions for the Starks enters...but truthfully, he wanted time to be alone with Jeyne.

She finds him after the maid has left, tangling her fingers in his and standing on her toes to kiss him. Her mouth is soft and sweet, and he’d be embarrassed at how hard he is if he wasn’t so happy to have her in his arms again. 

It’s a long time later when she pulls away, her lips swollen and eyes dark. She laces her hands behind his neck, keeping herself close to him. “How  _ did _ you know Sansa was being held here?”

He hesitates. “It’s going to sound mad.”

“So?”

So he tells her about Bran, knowing that on the other side of the door, the Starks are doing the same for Sansa. Jeyne’s eyes grow wide, her lips parting in surprise. 

“I know how it sounds,” he adds when he finishes. 

Jeyne takes a moment to mull over all he’s told her. “My father told me about greenseers once,” she says slowly. “They were...able to see things that no one else can. But I don’t...I don’t know if this is the same thing. Greensight is more...visions and dreams. What Bran is able to do...that’s something else, I think.”

“I was hesitant to believe him at first, but...there’s no way he could know the things he does unless he’s telling the truth,” Theon agrees. 

“It all feels connected, doesn’t it?” she murmurs. “The return of the White Walkers, Bran becoming this...Three Eyed Raven. Even the direwolves you all found, that day you rode out to behead a deserter.”

Theon closes his eyes. “I’d forgotten about him. He’d claimed to see White Walkers. We took him for a liar and a craven, but now…” Now, he isn’t so certain. What if that man really had seen White Walkers? 

“I didn’t know that.”

He nods, opening his eyes. “Aye. Lord Stark didn’t like to talk about executions, especially around the women, but that’s what it was. And on our way back we found a direwolf and a stag. They’d killed one another, and the wolf had given birth as she died. Six pups. One for each of Ned Stark’s children. Even then we found it odd.” They’d meant to kill the pups before they could grow into man-eating beasts. Theon had taken a pup, ready to drive his own blade into it to please Lord Stark, until Jon had intervened. It had been Bran’s pup he’d taken. Summer. 

_ And he died anyway. _

“It’s like they were trying to warn you,” she murmurs. 

“Who’s they?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. But someone must have wanted to warn us. The Three Eyed Raven, maybe. Or the Children of the Forest. Or maybe something we don’t understand. But it can’t be just a coincidence, can it?”

“No,” he admits. “I don’t think it can.”

 .

Lord Tyrion secures rooms for the Northern party in close proximity to Sansa’s own room. With Ser Andar here, Jeyne can no longer share a bed with Sansa. 

Theon can’t even pretend to hide his pleasure at the fact. They’d shared a bed a few times at Runestone, and he’d utterly loved falling asleep and waking up beside her. 

_ This is how it could be if things were different, _ he’d thought to himself in those moments.  _ If I wasn’t a knight of the Kingsguard and if she was my wife. _

He doesn’t regret joining the Kingsguard, but…

Well, it’s as Lord Eddard used to say; nothing a man says before the word “but” matters.

He wishes he’d known then that he would fall so hopelessly in love with her. He could have come with Sansa to Runestone as a member of her household, and every night he could have fallen asleep with Jeyne at his side. And maybe someday, if she wanted it, there could have been children. 

His heart aches at this thought, and he pushes it from his mind. There will be no children, not ever, and thinking about them will only make things worse. 

“What are you thinking about?” she murmurs when they lie in his bed together, her legs tangled with his. She’s small and slight against him, so soft he almost fears breaking her if he holds her too tight. But she won’t break, not Jeyne. She’s stronger than she looks.

He shakes his head. “Do you like her? Daenerys?”

Jeyne shrugs, tracing circles on his chest. “I don’t dislike her. I think she’s a good person. She went to rescue Jon when she could’ve sent her own men or not done anything at all.”

“But you don’t like her.”

She hesitates. “I don’t think she’ll let the North stay independent. I think she’ll help us fight the Army of the Dead, but when all’s said and done, she came here to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Not six. Seven.”

They lie there for a long moment, thinking.

“Starks have always fallen to Targaryens,” he murmurs. “Torrhen Stark, Rickard Stark, Brandon Stark, even Lyanna Stark…”

“Don’t let Rickon be the next one,” she says fiercely. 

“I won’t.”

But even Theon doesn’t know how he can protect his king against three dragons and their mother.

.

Several days pass on Dragonstone. Rickon wants to spend most of that time watching and learning from the Dothraki, who are amused by this young king. They show him how to use an  _ arakh _ , which Rickon seems to like much more than the Westerosi swords he has used for so long. 

Tyrion comes out to watch, too, during one of these demonstrations. Theon stiffens at the other man’s approach, remembering the last time they spoke one on one.

Tyrion remembers it, too.

“I once said your loyalty to your captors is touching, Greyjoy,” he says carelessly. “It is even more so now that you’ve been named knight of the Kingsguard. To a boy, too, no less. An easy way to ensure you will never be given land or titles, and they will never have to worry about you siring anymore traitorous Greyjoys.”

“You’re one to speak of treason,” Theon snaps. “Given who you serve now.”

“Am I?” Tyrion raises his eyebrows. “I seem to recall Robert Baratheon being named a traitor...until he was named a king. How is it treason to support the rightful queen?”

Theon shakes his head. “I wasn’t forced to be a knight of the Kingsguard. I chose it.”

Tyrion chuckles.

“What’s so funny, Lannister?”

“You think you chose it.”

“I did. I got down on my knees and asked the king to grant me this favor.”

Tyrion looks up at him. “Perhaps that’s what you truly believe, Greyjoy...but deep down, I think you know better. You like to think you chose this life, but in reality, there was no choice to be made. Do you truly believe the Starks would provide for you if you had not taken on this mantle? Do you believe they would have made you a lord and granted you a holdfast and allowed you to marry?”

Theon’s stomach lurches. It’s a thought he’s had more than once, but never allowed himself to fully consider. 

But they would have...wouldn’t they? After everything he’s done? 

“Not that it matters now,” Tyrion says, still in that careless tone of voice. “You’ve made your choice, as you say, and the Kingsguard is for life.”

“Why do you hate me?” Theon bites out. 

“I don’t,” Tyrion admits. “I pity you.”

“Hate, pity. What’s the difference?” Theon stalks away to another part of the yard, still watching Rickon. He keeps his face a stone mask, unwilling to let Tyrion see how deeply his words have shaken him.

  
  



	86. SANSA XIX

Andar moves in his sleep, shifting from his back onto his side. Sansa watches him, biting her lip. 

She hasn’t told him about her recent revelation, nor does she have any intention of doing so. She’s asked Myrcella and Trystane to keep their silence, and she believes them when they say they will never breathe a word of it. Jeyne, too, has sworn to silence.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Sansa had insisted. “Not even Theon.”

“I won’t tell him,” Jeyne had promised. “No one could ever come before you, Sansa.”

As reassuring as that had been to hear, some part of Sansa fears that Andar will find out anyway. That one of them will slip and say something. Or worse--that  _ she’ll _ slip and say something. It’s easy enough to deny what someone else says as a lie, but if  _ she _ says anything…

What would Andar do to her? If anything? She can’t believe him capable of cruelty, but infidelity is a serious offense, especially when it involves a predilection for someone of the same sex. Would he try to divorce her? It’s hard to do, and has rarely been done in Westeros, but he might find a way. Perhaps he would stay married to her, but he would never trust her again. They’d couple when they had to, to make more heirs for the Royces of Runestone, but when they’d had enough he’d shun her and take on a mistress of his own. And she...she’d be a prisoner in her own home.

_ Assuming the Army of the Dead doesn’t kill us all first. _

Unsettled by her thoughts, Sansa slips out of bed, careful not to wake her husband. She puts on a robe and slippers, and though she’s quiet, Grey Wind wakes at the movement, his yellow eyes watching her. When she opens the door, he bolts to his feet, padding towards her on his enormous but silent feet. She closes the door behind them, walking down the corridor with the great beast at her side. 

It’s oddly comforting, being the only person awake at this hour. It’s that quiet lull between late night and early morning, the only sound the crashing of waves on the rock and shore outside. Sansa finds herself wandering out of the castle and down the winding walkway. She feels oddly free, knowing that no one else will see her. It’s like there’s no one else in the world but her and Grey Wind.

She stands at the parapet for a while, watching the endless stretch of starry sky and sparkling sea. As unwilling as she’d been to stay on Dragonstone, as unhappy as she’d been with Jon’s decision, it really is a beautiful place. Maybe in another world, in another life, she would’ve been happy here.

She’s reflecting on this when a familiar call rings out through the sky. Grey Wind’s ears prick up, his whole body stiffening as he seems to point at the sky with his snout. Sansa understands why; two dark shapes are moving up above, blotting out the stars with the flap of their wings.

_ The dragons. _

Sansa clutches the stone wall before her, watching anxiously. The dragons fly ever closer, and then, rounding the bend, she sees a ship sail into the cove. 

Daenerys hadn’t left with a ship. She’d left with Ser Jorah and three dragons.

Torn between alerting someone at the castle and going to see what’s going on for herself, Sansa finds her decision made when Grey Wind lopes down the steps. She follows after him, wondering what is going on.

A boat is rowing to shore by the time she makes it down to the beach. Behind her, she can hear the shouts and stomp of feet as the guards on duty hurry down to the beach. Their torches and the lantern on the boat reveal the silver hair of Daenerys. There are several men on the boat with her, including Ser Jorah and a man she’d not thought to see ever again.

Sandor Clegane.

Daenerys calls out something in Valyrian, and the Unsullied rush down to meet the boat, pushing it onto shore. 

“Jon?” Sansa asks fearfully, clutching her robe tighter around her.

“He’s here,” Daenerys says, accepting Ser Jorah’s help out of the boat. She says something else in Valyrian and two of the Unsullied lift a crude litter out of the boat. Lying on it is Jon, his face pale. Sansa cries out, rushing to her brother’s side and touching his cheek. 

“What happened?!”

“He fell into ice water,” Ser Jorah tells her gently. “How he made it back is a mystery. We were prepared to leave Eastwatch when a horse brought him to us. He was slumped over and frozen half to death. He’ll recover, my lady, have no fear on that count. He only needs a few days’ rest.”

Sansa wants to follow after the men carrying the litter, but she knows she ought to speak to Daenerys first. 

“Your Grace, I am in your debt,” she babbles, trembling too hard to curtsy as she know she ought to. 

Daenerys shakes her head. “I sent your brother beyond the Wall; it is only right I should have gone too. Otherwise I would not have seen.”

“You saw them?”

Daenerys nods miserably. “They killed my dragon. Viserion.” Her voice cracks.

Sansa feels her heart sink. What could kill a dragon? What horrible, terrible creature could kill one of the most powerful beings in the world? “I’m so sorry,” she says sincerely, reaching out to touch the other woman’s hand. “I know how much he meant to you. How much all your dragons mean to you.”

“They are the only children I will ever have,” Daenerys says, her voice breaking again. “And his sacrifice will not have been in vain. The Night King killed my child, and I will not rest until he has paid.” She moves for the castle, but Sansa holds onto her hand, rooting her to the spot.

“Your Grace, before you go, I should tell you...my family has come from the North.”

Daenerys is clearly surprised to hear this. “Your family?”

“My brother, sister, mother, and husband. They were concerned for me.” She hesitates. “My other brother, who remains at Winterfell...he has returned from the Land of Always Winter.”

“The Land of Always Winter?” Daenerys asks flatly.

“I know it sounds strange,” Sansa admits. “I have trouble believing it myself. But he...he can see things. He knew exactly where I was and where Jon had gone. My family was worried I was…”

“A prisoner?”

“Yes,” Sansa admits. “They wanted to take me away.”

“But you’re still here,” Daenerys says curiously.

“Yes.” Sansa is confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Daenerys shakes her head, a strange look on her face. “You are a good person, Sansa Stark. That’s a rare breed these days.”

“Not that rare,” Sansa says softly. “You’re a good person too, Your Grace.”

Daenerys bows her head and walks up the beach, following the litter. After a long moment, Sansa does too.

.

The Starks sit with Jon all through the next few days it takes him to recover. All the Starks save Catelyn, who spends her time elsewhere. She still hasn’t forgiven Jon for leaving Sansa a captive at Dragonstone, even if he had faced death itself to get back to her. 

Jon, for his part, does seem to get better with every passing hour. He tells them about the journey he and a handful of other men went on, all of them having ended up at Eastwatch under strange circumstances. He tells them how they’d forayed beyond the Wall to look for a wight to catch and bring back to Daenerys. He tells them how they’d sent one man back to send a message to Daenerys when they were surrounded, how they’d been stranded in the middle of a frozen lake before the wights realized they could cross the ice. They’d captured a wight, which now lives in the dungeons, chained and guarded, but they’d feared they’d never be able to bring it back...when Daenerys and her dragons came to save them. All the other men had climbed on the back of her dragon, but Jon was separated from them by wights. The Night King killed her dragon, and then there had been so many wights that Jon couldn’t possibly get to the others. They’d flown away and he’d slipped under the water, but he’d been saved by their uncle Benjen.

“Benjen?” Arya asks incredulously. 

He’s not alive anymore, but neither is he a wight, Jon tries to explain. He’s something else. He saved Jon and sent him away on his horse.

“Is he still…?” Sansa asks.

“I don’t think so,” Jon murmurs. 

She’d never really known her uncle Benjen. He’d joined the Night’s Watch before she was even born, mere months after his brother returned to claim his place as Lord of Winterfell. He’d visited Winterfell every now and then, but only fleetingly, and he’d never shown more than a passing interest in his eldest niece. That was fine by Sansa, who’d always preferred the company of her mother and Jeyne to an uncle she barely knew who lived in the middle of nowhere. 

Still, it saddens her to think that he’s...whatever he is now. He’d been a kind man, and he’d clearly loved his brother’s family. 

When Jon has told them his tale, they tell him theirs, about Bran’s return and the Three Eyed Raven. Jon listens in rapt interest, unable to believe what has happened to their brother. And yet, he doesn’t disbelieve it.

“I’d be a fool not to believe in something after all I’ve seen,” he admits. “White Walkers, giants, wargs...what’s a greenseer compared to these things?”

.

When Jon has mended well enough to walk without assistance, Daenerys holds a council with the lords, ladies, and captains on Dragonstone. 

“The Army of the Dead is real,” she says simply. “I have seen them. I have lost my dragon to them. And I will not rest until they are defeated.”

The Northerners breathe a sigh of relief. 

“We need as many men as we can get,” Jon says. “We should take the wight we found to Stannis and invite all the lords of the realm to come and see so they can know what we’re up against.”

“I agree,” Daenerys says. “I will offer a temporary truce with Stannis and with the King in the  North until the Night King and his army are defeated.”

“And after that?” Catelyn asks sharply.

Daenerys fixes her eyes on the Stark matriarch. “After that, we’ll see who is still standing.”

“I will go to the Vale, to bring my father and Lord Arryn,” Andar offers. 

“I will write to my brother Edmure,” Catelyn says with a touch of coldness. “He is Lord Paramount of the Trident.”

“I speak for Dorne,” Trystane says. “My father is already mustering men; they will be ready to march north soon.”

“And I can treat with Stannis,” Myrcella offers. “He can command the other lords to attend.”

Daenerys bows her head. “Very good.” 

A few more plans are made, and then the council is dismissed, each to their own tasks. Andar takes Sansa’s hand, smiling at her. 

“Ready to go home?”

Sansa looks at him in surprise. “Home?”

“Yes,” he says, wearing a look of confusion. “Winter is coming, as your family is so fond of saying, and soon we’ll be at war.”

“I…” Sansa hasn’t considered the possibility of returning to Runestone. She’d thought she would stay with her family. Her  _ real _ family, that is, not the Royces. Is he truly going to send her home to sew more dresses while everyone she knows and loves goes to war?

“I’m afraid Lady Sansa must remain with me, Ser Andar,” Daenerys says, to Sansa’s surprise and relief. “She has been invaluable to me since arriving at Dragonstone, and I absolutely need her by my side in the days to come.”

Andar looks just as surprised as Sansa, but he does not dare question the dragon queen. Instead, he bows.  “Of course, Your Grace.”

Sansa looks at Daenerys. The queen winks back at her.

.

Andar departs that very day. Sansa sees him off on the beach, kissing him and promising to take care while he’s away. Though it shames her, she can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he’s out of sight. No more lying and pretending she loves him, and no having to go back to Runestone and wait out the war with his mother. She can remain here, with her mother and brothers and sister. 

_ And Daenerys _ .

She finds the other woman once Andar’s ship has left the cove. She’s still in her council chamber, staring at the carved table before her. Tokens mark which armies are where, and freshly carved figurines represent the Army of the Dead lurking beyond the Wall. 

Daenerys looks up at Sansa’s approach. 

“Your husband is gone?”

Sansa nods, coming over to toy with one of the direwolf figurines. “Your Grace, can I ask why you...interceded for me earlier?”

“It was the truth. You are invaluable to me.”

Sansa flushes. “That is kind of you to say, but I suspect it is not wholly the truth.”

Daenerys is quiet for a moment. “You did not seem eager to return home.”

“I wasn’t,” Sansa admits. 

“I know that Westerosi wives are expected to submit to their husbands in all things...but that is one of many things I plan to change as Queen.”

Sansa can’t help but smile at that. “I’m glad.” She hesitates. “Do you...plan to take a husband when you are queen?”

Daenerys sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to. I don’t relish the thought. But alliances must be made.”

“And the kingdom will need an heir.”

Daenerys surprises her by shaking her head. “I cannot have children.”

That surprises Sansa. “Oh…”

“A witch killed my firstborn,” she says calmly. “And cursed me so that I would never have a child again.”

“That’s awful,” Sansa murmurs. “Are you...how did she…?”

“There is magic beyond our understanding in the world,” Daenerys says gently. “My husband and his  _ khalasar _ destroyed her village, raped her and all the women they found, and killed all the rest. A few survived to become slaves, but only a handful. It was her revenge. My son was to become the Stallion Who Mounts the World, or so the Dothraki believed. She wanted to make sure that the son in my belly would never grow to rape or kill.” Her voice tightens. “And he never did.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sansa says sincerely. “And you’re...you’re sure you can never have children?”

“I’ve lain with men since then, and my womb never quickened.”

Sansa bows her head. “I’m sorry.”

“So no, there will be no more Targaryens after me. I’m the last one.”

Sansa considers this. “Forgive me, but...what about a successor? Surely you cannot expect the kingdom to make do after your passing?”

“You sound like Tyrion,” she says with a small smile. “I’m still considering it. It may not even matter by the time this war is over. Perhaps we’ll all die.”

“Robert and Stannis Baratheon are both grandsons of Rhaelle Targaryen; to this day, Stannis is the closest blood relative to exist. Robert used his lineage to argue his place onto the Iron Throne—perhaps you could come to an agreement with Stannis and name him your successor? That way, you could avoid a war between your factions and he could feel as if he was not having the throne completely ripped from him.”

Daenerys considers this with interest. “That could work. Assuming Stannis would be willing to step down.” 

Frankly, Sansa thinks she’d have a hard time convincing Stannis to do that, but it’s better than nothing. Who else would Daenerys choose? She has no other blood relations. The Martells can claim some Targaryen blood, but most highborn families in Westeros can. 

“I will speak to him about it. At some point. First, we must focus on the war ahead of us.”

Sansa bows her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiles at her, and Sansa feels a fluttering in her belly that she doesn’t quite know how to place. 

  
  



	87. JEYNE XIV

Jeyne doesn’t know how, but Myrcella convinces Stannis to summon all the Lords Paramount and meet with Daenerys. Wanting to meet neither on Dragonstone nor in King’s Landing, they finally agree to meet in the dragonpit on the outskirts of the city. All the inhabitants of Dragonstone load onto ships and make the short journey to the mainland, mooring in Blackwater Bay while longboats row them to shore. 

The camp surrounding the dragonpit is enormous. The Lords Paramount have all come, along  with a sizable number of retainers. Jeyne sees hundreds of sigils flapping in the wind, the men bearing their colors looking up at the party with curiosity and suspicion. 

Ser Andar and his father greet the Northerners near the Vale camp. 

“Has my nephew bestirred himself?” Catelyn asks as Lord Royce helps her down. 

“Surprisingly, yes, my lady; he was most eager to meet the dragon queen.”

“Well, that is a surprise,” Catelyn says, eyebrows raised. “I will speak with him.”

“He is with your brother now, my lady, in the Tully camp.”

“Will you show me the way, my lord?”

While Lord Royce accompanies Catelyn and Rickon to meet with Edmure and Robin, Jeyne unpacks Sansa’s things. She’ll be sharing a tent with her husband, as is only proper, but it does leave Jeyne in a scramble to find a place to sleep. Lady Catelyn might let her bunk down with her and Arya, or perhaps Brienne and Osha would be willing to make room for her in their own tent. She’s still thinking about it when a familiar voice says, “Never thought I’d see you so close to King’s Landing again.”

Jeyne spins around, beaming when she sees her friend. “Ros!”

The older woman smiles, wrapping her arms around Jeyne in a tight hug. “Hello, my love.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, when I heard about the gathering, I could hardly stay away, could I?” She links her arm with Jeyne’s, walking through the camp. “Heard you met with the dragon queen.”

“Only from a distance. It was Sansa she dealt with.”

“What’s she like?”

“Wonderful,” Jeyne admits. “So many people want to paint her as this coldhearted warrior queen, but she isn’t. She’s lovely and kind, and she wants to help us.”

“You sound quite taken with her.”

“Perhaps I am a little. I hope you meet her, or at least see her in person. She’s...unreal, Ros.” 

The two women chat for a while, catching up since they last saw each other at the wedding. When Jeyne prods to find out where Ros is staying, hoping to lay her bedroll beside her friend’s, the other woman laughs. 

“I’ve been staying with Queen Asha and Princess Arianne, believe it or not. It’s been so nice I haven’t even charged them for it.”

Jeyne bursts into giggles. “I can’t wait to see the look on Theon’s face when he finds out you’re fucking his sister.”

Both women cackle at this. 

“That does put a damper on my plans,” Jeyne admits after a moment. “I don’t know where I’m going to sleep.”

“Well, I’d offer to let you join me, but I don’t think Theon would forgive me if I let his sister put her hands on you.”

“Probably not,” Jeyne agrees. 

“Why can’t you sleep with Theon?”

“He’s sleeping in the king’s tent to protect him.”

“And how are things with him?”

“Good. I’m still not…” She doesn’t know how to finish, but Ros seems to understand. “But we’re...creative.”

“Well, if you want pointers, I’ve got plenty,” Ros teases. “As long as you’re happy.”

Jeyne hesitates for a beat too long.

“You are happy, aren’t you?” Ros asks, stopping and turning to face the other woman.

Jeyne can’t quite meet her eyes. “Not...as happy as I could be. I miss him,” she admits, voice cracking. “And Sansa’s always…” 

“Always what?” Ros prods.

“She’s unhappy, too. She doesn’t love her husband, and it fills her with guilt.” The words come out in a rush. “I just...I wish we could go back to Winterfell. For good. Runestone will never be our home, not really.”

“It takes time to settle into a new home,” Ros says gently. “And not all wives love their husbands.”

Jeyne sighs. “I know.”

Ros strokes her cheek. “I wish I had a solution for you. It’s not easy, the life you’ve chosen. And Sansa has no choice at all. She’s the sister of a king. Her life is not her own.”

Jeyne nods, miserable. “I know. I only...I wish it wasn’t so.”

“You and I both, lamb.”

.

Jeyne does end up sharing a tent with Osha and Brienne, who are pleasant enough sleeping companions; Brienne is a heavy sleeper, and once her gentle snores fill the tent, Osha scoots closer to Jeyne. 

“Tell me true, what happened between Lady Sansa and her husband?”

“Nothing,” Jeyne whispers in surprise. 

Osha quirks her brow. “Really? Because she’s been avoiding him like an illness.”

“Is it that obvious?” Jeyne asks in dismay. 

“Maybe not to everyone,” Osha allows. “But it is to me.”

“It’s nothing,” Jeyne says. “Nothing...happened. She only...she doesn’t love him. She doesn’t like Runestone. She misses her family and Winterfell.”

“Aye, it’s hard, being away from home,” Osha says wisely. “The Free Folk men steal their women away. Usually it’s not so bad, just a little tussle between lovers, but sometimes women get captured and taken far away.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Jeyne asks curiously. 

“Some men tried,” she says with a smile. “But Bruni was the only one what succeeded. I loved him. I was his, and he was mine.”

“What happened to Bruni?” Jeyne knows Osha had been captured in the wolfswood with a band of other wildlings, but none of them had survived. Had Bruni been among them?

Osha’s smile fades. “He disappeared. Everyone thought he left me, but I knew he never would. He was gone for days. Weeks. And then one night he came back, but he was different. Changed. His eyes were blue as ice, his hands black as night. And then he wrapped those black hands around my throat and tried to choke the life from me.”

“Osha…” Jeyne murmurs, horrified. 

“The dead don’t care who we are or who we love,” Osha whispers fiercely. “They’ll take all of us and turn us into mindless, murderous beasts.” She touches Jeyne’s cheek. “You and Lady Sansa should go back to Runestone. Better yet, go as far south as south goes. Somewhere the dead can’t reach.”

Though she’s warm beneath the furs, Jeyne shivers. 

.

In the morning, the lords all gather in the dragonpit. It’s little more than ruins now; the last dragons died out years ago, and they were small and sickly creatures. A dais has been erected in the center of the pit, with chairs placed beneath canopies forming a horseshoe. Stannis, Rickon, Jon, and Asha all take a seat, their immediate advisors gathered around them. The other lords and retainers sit on the rough stone benches carved above the pit, waiting and watching.

“Where is she?” Stannis asks when he arrives, eyes darting around for the Targaryen queen.

“She’ll be here shortly,” Tyrion says in a calm voice. 

They sit for a long time, waiting. Jeyne, standing behind Sansa’s chair, glances at Theon beside her. Daenerys had decided to arrive in her own fashion, but who knows how long that will take?

Just as people are starting to get antsy, a shriek rents the air. Everyone looks up, ducking out from beneath the canopies to see the two dragons winging overhead. The black one, Drogon, tilts in a tight circle, coming closer and closer to the ground. He reaches out with his talons, seizing onto the wall of the pit; the men who are sitting nearby leap out of their seats, scattering lest they get crushed by the great beast. He lets out another shriek, one that makes the entire pit vibrate, and then lowers his head. Daenerys climbs off of his back, patting his neck as she dismounts. He waits until she’s safely on the ground before taking off, his wings stirring up the dirt. 

Daenerys walks up to the empty seat beside Tyrion and sits, unruffled. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Yes you have,” Asha says with a small smirk. “So you could make that entrance.”

Daenerys only smiles at her.

“Are we here for a foreigner’s spectacle?” Stannis asks irritably. 

“I am no foreigner,  _ my lord _ ; I was conceived and born on Westerosi soil,” Daenerys says, her voice cool. “And it is my family’s throne your brother stole.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Jon says, getting to his feet. “I appreciate the difficulty presented to you both, but this is no time to bicker over who gets to rule what. If we wait much longer, the only person ruling Westeros will be the Night King, and his subjects are all corpses.”

“I did not know the Lord Commander was a poet,” Edmure Tully drawls. 

“Let him speak,” Catelyn says, surprising her family. 

Jon bows his head. “Thank you, my lady.” He turns to Stannis. “We have something to show you, Your Grace. All of you.”

Stannis inclines his own head. “Then do it.”

Sandor Clegane walks up the steps leading out from the pit, a huge crate on his back. He sets it down, carefully removing the iron slats until he can pull off the lid. Jeyne tenses, waiting for her first glimpse of death’s footsoldier.

When nothing immediately happens, Clegane kicks the crate. An unearthly shriek rises up as the crate turns on its side. What looks like a writhing bundle of bones unfurls, spilling out of the crate and rising up as a body. It’s little more than a skeleton, with only scraps of flesh and cloth hanging from it, but its eyes are icy blue and terrible. It runs forward, its horrible shrieking sounds renting the air.

Jeyne sees it coming for her and feels her heart race, her breath catching in her throat. Theon pushes her behind him, pulling his sword out of its sheath.

He needn’t bother; the wight falls back with an audible snap, the chain around his neck keeping him in place. He claws at the air, still shrieking. Even though he’s restrained, Jeyne keeps a tight grip on Theon’s arm, her knees weak at the sight of the creature.

Clegane gives the chain a yank; incensed, the wight turns around and makes for him. He swings his sword, cutting the beast in half. 

To Jeyne’s horror, this does not kill the wight. His legs twitch, and he uses his arms to crawl along the dais. Clegane swings his sword again, severing the wight’s hand from its arm. The hand keeps crawling, inching ever closer. Jon picks it up, holding it up for everyone to say.

“We can kill them with fire.” He takes a torch from one of his brothers and sets the hand aflame, making it shrivel and turn to ash. “We can kill them with dragonglass.” He takes an obsidian knife and plunges it into the wight, making it also shrivel and turn to ash. The shrieking comes to a blissful halt. “And we can kill them with Valyrian steel.” Jon allows a moment for this to sink in. “This is one of  _ millions _ of soldiers in the Army of the Dead. This will be the fate of every man, woman, and child in Westeros if we don’t stop them.”

The silence in the dragonpit is palpable. Jeyne has understood that there was a threat beyond the Wall for some time now, but to actually see it like this, to know what’s coming for them...it shakes her to her very core.

“Where did you get this?” Princess Arianne asks at last.

“Beyond the Wall,” Jon tells her. “We lost some good men to bring this to you.”

“They killed one of my dragons,” Daenerys says, and shocked murmurs break out in the stands. “I’ve faced my share of enemies, but I’ve never seen anything like the Night King or his army.” She rises, coming towards Stannis. “All my life, I’ve been dreaming of coming home. I was prepared to stop at nothing. Not even the Night’s Watch imploring me to help them defeat White Walkers. And then I saw them for myself. This is bigger than you or me, and who sits on the throne won’t matter if the Night King kills us all.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” Asha says, looking between Jon and Daenerys, “but why do you need us? If they can be killed with fire, surely you can just...use your dragons?”

“There are too many of them,” Jon tells her. “And if the Night King was able to fell one dragon, he could easily fell the other two. We need men to fight them with dragonglass and Valyrian steel, and fire, if they can wield it.”

“Are they expected to overtake the Wall?” Edmure asks. “I mean, isn’t that why it’s there? To keep them out?”

“It’s said that the Children of the Forest imbued the Wall with magic,” Lord Royce agrees.

“You truly believe that?” Lord Redwyne scoffs.

“A wight just tried to kill us, yet you cannot bring yourself to believe in the Children of the Forest?” Rickon asks sharply.

Lord Redwyne scowls. “Alright then, let’s assume the magic is real. Wouldn’t it keep the White Walkers out?”

“That is the hope,” Jon admits. “But we have reason to believe the magic that kept them at bay will no longer work. At this point, it’s only a matter of time before they find a way to bypass the Wall.”

“Can they swim?” Asha asks.

He shakes his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

“That buys us some time, then.” She looks at him curiously. “Unless...you mean to go beyond the Wall and take them out before they can cross.”

“I would sooner do that than wait for them,” Jon confesses. “If they cross the Wall, women and children will fall before them. But if we go north and take them out before they have the chance…”

“Innocent people need not die,” Stannis finishes, leaning back in his seat. He strokes his chin, the creases in his face deepening as he thinks. His eyes find Daenerys and the creases grow even deeper. “If we do this...if we march north as one united army and defeat the Army of the Dead...then what? You came here to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, and I’ll not step aside after fighting a war to get here, nor can I imagine the King in the North bending the knee.”

“We can deal with that after the war...if there’s even anything left to deal with,” Daenerys says. “Make no mistake, I came here to take what is mine, but the people I mean to rule are in danger, and it is my  _ responsibility _ to protect them. As it is yours, and the King in the North’s.”

The red woman whispers something in Stannis’s ear. He listens, still as stone, and then gets to his feet.

“Very well. Daenerys Targaryen, I will make a truce with you. Until the Army of the Dead has been defeated and every man, woman, and child in Westeros is safe, I will not fight you. You will be my ally and equal in all things.” He extends his arm in a peace offering.

Daenerys takes it, both of them grasping forearms in the old way. “Stannis Baratheon, I swear that you will be my ally and equal in all things. Our armies shall be one united force, brothers in arms until the enemy has been defeated.” She repeats the oath with Rickon and Asha, clasping their arms in a show of solidarity. When the last vow has been made, the men in the stands stamp their feet in approval. 

_ So that’s it, _ Jeyne thinks.  _ We’re going to war. _


	88. SANSA XX

The camp is a flurry of activity that night. In the morning, the lords will depart for their homes to muster their troops and take them north. The Northern forces already in the south will accompany Daenerys’s Dothraki and Unsullied up the kingsroad to Winterfell, which Rickon has graciously offered as a meeting place for the armies. 

Sansa spends much of that evening with her family, poring over maps and making plans for the impending war. The sheer size of their armies will take up a lot of space, and they may have to stretch the camp as far as Cerwyn just to accommodate all of the realm’s soldiers. 

“This will be the biggest army ever to fight in Westeros,” Theon says with a glint in his eye. Every soldier in the Seven Kingdoms…”

“Will all of them come, though?” Catelyn wonders aloud. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these lords choose to wait out the storm in their holdfasts.”

“They’ll have Stannis and Daenerys to deal with if they do,” Sansa says grimly. “And if we lose the war, they’ll be turned into wights anyway.”

Catelyn shivers. “What a horrible thought.”

“We’ll defeat them,” Rickon says with confidence. “It’s like Theon said, this will be the biggest army in Westerosi history. The White Walkers have been defeated before.”

“Were they really defeated though?” Arya asks. “I mean, if the Children of the Forest really did put up the Wall, they must have thought the White Walkers would come back. Do you think the White Walkers will come back, even if we defeat them?”

“Jon says they’re led by this Night King,” Theon says. “If we kill him, that would stop them, wouldn’t it?”

“But who is he and where does he come from? Where do any of them come from?” Catelyn wants to know, taking a seat. “The Long Night was eight thousand years ago, and what hasn’t been lost to time has been turned into legend. What do we even know about the White Walkers that isn’t just a wet-nurse’s tale?”

“Maybe the wet-nurse’s tales are true,” Arya poses. “We thought the White Walkers were just stories, but they’re not.”

“Old Nan knows lots about the White Walkers,” Rickon agrees.

“Probably because she was alive when they last came eight thousand years ago,” Theon says, trying and failing to hide a smirk.

“Oh, Theon, please,” Catelyn reprimands, but her heart isn’t really in it. “Will you tell the men we’re leaving in the morning?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“We should all get some sleep,” she continues. “We have a long journey ahead of us. Sansa, are you coming with us, or are you accompanying Andar to the Vale?”

“I want to come with you,” she says at once. “Andar doesn’t need me to muster the Royce men.” Which is true--there’s nothing more she could do by going with Andar. 

When she returns to her tent, she says as much to her husband, who looks at her in shock. 

“What?” she asks, self-conscious. 

“Sansa...you can’t be planning to go north?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks in surprise. “Winterfell is my home.”

A shadow falls over his face. “ _ Runestone _ is your home.”

She winces at the slip. “Yes, but this is war, Andar. Every soldier in the realm is going to fight.”

“You’re not a soldier.”

She stares at him. “What are you saying?”

“Sweet...your place is at home.  _ Our _ home. You don’t need to journey across the continent to wait out the storm while we march beyond the Wall. Father and I are already returning to the Vale, we’ll take you home where you’ll be safe.” He reaches for her, but Sansa steps back. 

“Andar, what you’re asking of me is too much.”

“I’m not asking.”

She gapes at him. “You would command me, then?” A sudden fury flashes through her. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell and Princess of the North—how  _ dare _ you command me to sit at home and, what, embroider? While everyone I know and love is going to be North, risking their lives?”

“I am your husband,” he says with uncharacteristic sternness. “You swore vows in the sight of gods and men.”

“And you swore to make me happy,” she retaliates. “You’ve failed in that.” She draws in a sharp breath, horrified at her own daring. 

Before she can say anything to rectify the situation, Andar scowls and says, “I don’t care about how happy or unhappy you are. You are my wife and I  _ command _ you to return to Runestone.”

“Or what?” When Andar says nothing, she scoffs and storms out of the tent, furious. Her feet carry her far out of the Vale camp, back towards the Northern camp. Here, she hesitates. 

She doesn’t want her mother to know that she’s been fighting with Andar; she won’t like it, and will likely instruct Sansa to do as her husband says—which Sansa has no intention of doing. Arya is staying with their mother, so even finding her sister runs the risk of her mother learning. She could go to Rickon and demand he let her accompany them North...but he would probably tell their mother, too. 

There’s Jeyne, who would keep her secret, and likely help her find a way to avoid her husband and go North. But when she goes to the tent Jeyne is sharing with Osha and Brienne, she only finds Osha.

The spearwife rolls her eyes. “She’s with Theon.”

Sansa isn’t about to look for Jeyne in that case. She wanders out of the Northern camp...and finds herself among the Unsullied. 

Well, she knows  _ one _ person who will sympathize with her. 

Finding two Unsullied guarding a tent of black canvas with a red three headed dragon painted over the flaps, Sansa gestures to ask if she may enter. One of the Unsullied calls inside in Valyrian, and at a response, they lift the flaps for her. Sansa ducks inside, transitioning into a curtsy for Daenerys. 

“Your Grace.”

“Lady Sansa.” Daenerys rises from the furs on the ground, hands clasped in front of her. “How can I help you?”

“In truth, I was hoping you could distract me,” Sansa admits. 

“I will do my best.” Daenerys gestures for the other woman to sit, pouring two cups of wine. “I apologize that I don’t have chairs.”

“That’s quite alright,” Sansa laughs, sitting on the furs. 

Daenerys hands her a cup. “What ails you, my lady?”

Sansa hesitates, taking the cup. “My husband.”

“Ah.” Daenerys’s lips curve in a small smile. “What’s he done now?”

“He wants me to return home. To the Vale,” Sansa says. “He doesn’t want me to go to Winterfell with everyone else.”

“And you want to go to Winterfell?” Daenerys surmises.

“I don’t want to stay at home and wait helplessly! I can be useful in the North, more than I ever could be in bloody  _ Runestone _ .”

Daenerys is looking at her with an almost fond expression. 

“What?”

“You’re so passionate,” she says softly. “It’s...refreshing.”

Sansa traces the rim of her cup. “Winterfell is my home. More than Runestone is. The Starks have lived there for thousands of years; Bran the Builder raised it and it has been held by his descendants ever since. It survived the Long Night...if I can’t be there now, when the second Long Night is upon us…”

“Is there no way to convince him?” Daenerys asks.

Sansa shakes her head. “He was determined.”

Daenerys considers her. “I suppose...you don’t  _ need _ his permission.”

“He’s my husband,” Sansa says softly. “To defy him…”

“Plenty of women defy their husbands. And we are at war; the rules are somewhat different, I should think.” Daenerys sips her wine. “You should go. As you said, Winterfell is your home, and you are a Stark. Your brother surely has need of you. And I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss you.”

Sansa feels that fluttering in her belly again. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Daenerys says softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you. You seem such a proper lady, and yet…”

“And yet what?” Sansa presses, curious.

Daenerys smiles again. “You abandon your husband to meet the Mother of Dragons with your bastard brother of the Night’s Watch, you have a pet direwolf, you plan to defy your husband’s wishes and not only ride towards the war, but to help plan it…” She shakes her head. “I would hope more Westerosi ladies are like you, Lady Sansa, but I can’t help but feel you’re one of a kind.”

Sansa flushes. “I take that as a very high compliment, Your Grace.”

“You should.” Daenerys scoots closer, a broad grin on her face. “Let’s play a game.”

“Alright,” Sansa says, also moving closer. 

“Tyrion likes to play this one. I guess something about you. If I’m right, you drink. If I’m wrong, I drink. And then we take turns.”

Sansa smiles. “That sounds like a Tyrion game.”

“It is.” Daenerys leans over, grabbing the pitcher of wine and topping up their cups. “I’ll go first.” She gives Sansa a scrutinizing look. “You have a sweet tooth.”

Sansa smiles and takes an obliging sip. 

“You liked songs about knights and heroes as a child...but your favorite was Florian and Jonquil.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open, but seeing the giddy look on Daenerys’s face, she takes another sip. 

“You wanted to be queen someday.”

Sansa takes another sip. “Until Joffrey became king, and then I wanted nothing less.”

Daenerys considers her. “You don’t like your husband.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open, but Daenerys looks at her, determined. 

Slowly, Sansa lifts the cup to her mouth, taking a long sip. 

Satisfied, Daenerys continues, “You don’t like men at all.”

“I like men,” Sansa says, surprised. “I...oh, you mean…” She flushes. 

Daenerys arches her brow. “Well?”

Sansa looks down...and drinks. 

Daenerys shifts. “You like women.”

Sansa takes another sip, still looking down. 

Daenerys is quiet for a long moment before  murmuring, “You like me.”

Sansa has to set down the cup lest Daenerys see her hand tremble.

“You’re not drinking. Do you not like me, Lady Sansa?”

“I…” She licks her lips. “I need another drink.”

“Drink this.” And suddenly, Daenerys’s lips are on her own. 

She tastes sweet, like wine, and her mouth is warm and soft against Sansa’s. Sansa is still trembling as she kisses Daenerys, her hand finding the dragon queen’s cheek. It feels... _ right _ . Righter than kissing Andar, those dutiful, passionless touching of lips. Desire pools between her legs, more than she’s ever felt before. It makes her move closer to Daenerys, hold the other woman tighter. When Daenerys gently pushes her to the ground, Sansa goes without resistance, still kissing the other woman. Daenerys’s hand tugs at Sansa’s dress, pulling it up her leg. Sansa wants Daenerys to touch her there, just as she wants to touch Daenerys, to  be touched as only a woman can touch her, not…

_ Not Andar. _

Guilt washes over her, and with a sick feeling, she turns her head away from Daenerys, pushing her dress back down her leg.

“What is it?” Daenerys asks, concerned. 

“I...I can’t.”  Sansa sits up, hating herself. “I like you--very much. Perhaps too much. But I...I swore a vow to my husband, and even if I don’t like him...he is my husband.” 

Daenerys’s face becomes a hard mask. “I see.”

“It wouldn’t be right,” Sansa whispers, her voice cracking. “As much as I want it--”

“I understand.” Daenerys looks away. “Perhaps you should leave, my lady. Before the temptation becomes too strong again.”

Sansa pushes herself to unsteady feet, her eyes blurring with tears. She stumbles out of the tent and has half a mind to stumble back in and kiss Daenerys again anyway...but she knows she shouldn’t. Even if she’s angry at Andar, even if she doesn’t love him or even like him that much, she shouldn’t be unfaithful. What had happened with Myrcella (and, to an extent, Trystane) had been infidelity, of course, but she had been drunk and she’d had to know. It had been wrong, of course it had, but isn’t it even more wrong to carry on with Daenerys like this? To willfully continue her infidelity?  

She finds her way back to the Northern camp, where she is relieved to find Jeyne returned from her walk with Theon. Sansa grabs her hand and drags her off and into the woods where they won’t be overheard. There, she tells her friend all that had transpired, both with Andar and with Daenerys.

Jeyne listens with wide eyes. “That’s...goodness.” She bites her lip.  “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa admits. “I don’t want to stay in Runestone.”

“Neither do I,” Jeyne says bluntly. “I understand Andar wants to keep you safe, but where could you be safer than at Winterfell, surrounded by thousands of warriors?”

“Exactly.” She bites her own lip. “Can you wake me early in the morning? Without waking Andar?”

“Yes.” 

“Then do it. If we can get an early enough start, we can leave at the head of the train--by the time Andar realizes where I’ve gone, it will be too late.”

“Good idea.” Jeyne takes her hands. “It will be alright. I know it will.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “I hope so.”

“It  _ will _ . We’ll be home soon.”

_ Home _ . Sansa can hardly wait.

.

When she gets back to her tent, Andar is already asleep. She undresses quickly and quietly before slipping in beside him, careful not to wake her husband.

She’s only sleep for what feels like minutes when a warm wind at her ear startles her.

“Sansa,” Jeyne is whispering. “It’s time.”

Sansa is quiet as she dresses in the dark, Jeyne helping her. She thinks with some regret of the clothes she’s leaving behind--but they were meant for warmer climes, and it will be cold in Winterfell. Her old dresses will still be there, and she can make more. 

Dressed and ready, Sansa leaves the tent. Dawn is breaking, the first yellow streaks of day giving light to the blue sky. There are still stars visible on the horizon, the last sparks of night smoldering into day. Her breath fogs up in front of her, and despite the early hour, it brings a smile to her face. She’s missed being cold, being really and truly cold. Soon, she’ll be really and truly cold all the time.

The Northern camp is being packed up, tents lying in haphazard piles as squires and grooms put them away. A bleary-eyed Rickon and Arya stand near the horses, yawning and nibbling halfheartedly on some jerky. 

Daenerys’s camp is in a similar state of dissemblance, the tents coming down as the soldiers ready for the march ahead of them. One of the only tents that remains standing is Daenerys’s. Guilt washes over Sansa at the memory of the night before. Should she say something? Or would that only make things worse?

As she passes by, the flaps open, but it isn’t Daenerys who emerges from within.

It’s Jon.

At the break of dawn.

With a smile on his face.

Sansa’s heart plummets.

  
  



	89. ARYA XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, I'm probably not going to update for a bit because my best friend is in town and all my energy will be on her!

The journey north takes three weeks on horseback. Even as fast as the Unsullied march, the kingsroad becomes snowier and snowier the further north they get, and they have to send men ahead to clear the way. 

They are fortunate that they have many friends along the way; without straying too far from the kingsroad, they are able to spend the night in holdfasts and inns. Still, there are a few stray nights here and there where they have to make camp, and as they get closer to the heart of winter, the nights get bitterly cold. The Unsullied are unused to the snow and cold, but they do not complain--unlike the Dothraki, who, though they speak exclusively in their guttural tongue, can be heard complaining as they huddle around their fires, pulling their furs tighter around them. 

Arya hopes to inspire confidence in so many different people someday. She doesn’t know much about the Dothraki, but she knows that they have never followed a woman before, and the decision to follow this particular woman was not made lightly. Her father had always said that the Dothraki were no threat because, even though they have the numbers and the prowess to defeat any army, they could never stop fighting each other long enough to unite. But here they are, united under one woman. 

“How did you do it?” she ventures to Queen Daenerys on a night the dragon queen has invited her and her family to dine in her tent. Sansa had excused herself with a headache, and Jon had muttered something about not wanting to dine with Lady Catelyn--which is understandable, all things considered. “How did you unite the Dothraki?”

“The Dothraki follow strength above all,” Daenerys tells her. “They believe a  _ khal _ who cannot ride is no  _ khal _ at all. To unite them, I had to make them understand that I was stronger than any of their  _ khals _ . So I set fire to the  _ khals _ who meant to rape and murder me and emerged from the flames alive and unharmed. From Drogon’s back, I had them swear in front of a sacred mountain that they would ride beside me.  _ Khals _ all have bloodriders who protect them from birth; when a  _ khal _ dies, his bloodriders must die with him to guard him in the Night Lands. I asked every Dothraki warrior to be my bloodrider, and they all cheered.”

Arya is enthralled with the story, as is Rickon. 

“What will happen after the war?” he asks. “Will the Dothraki stay here, or will they go back to Essos?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Like the Kingsguard, a bloodrider is a bloodrider for life...but Westeros is not their home. This place is foreign and unusual to them, and life is different here. They are born and bred warriors, which is to my advantage, but staying here would mean learning to integrate with Westerosi society.”

“Do you think them capable of that?” Catelyn asks.

“I don’t know. As little as a year ago, it was unfathomable that the Dothraki would unite behind one ruler or cross the sea, yet here they are. Perhaps becoming part of Westeros is not so unlikely.”

Catelyn does not seem pleased at the idea, but Arya thinks it fascinating. All her life, the Dothraki were little more than stories from a distant land; now, they’re riding towards Winterfell, and someday, they may be as common a sight as any other warrior in Westeros. 

Catelyn retires early, claiming weariness from the ride, which leaves Arya and Rickon to pummel Daenerys with questions. The dragon queen doesn’t seem to mind at all; if anything, she seems pleased at their interest. 

“Could I ever ride a dragon?” Rickon asks boldly.

“If you like,” Daenerys says, smiling. “Perhaps you can join me on Drogon’s back tomorrow.” 

Rickon looks thrilled at the invitation.

“You, too, Lady Arya,” Daenerys adds. “Your brother tells me you are fascinated by dragons.”

“I am,” Arya allows. “I always liked the stories of the Conquest. Not just Aegon, but Rhaenys and Visenya, too. He couldn’t have done it without them.”

“No, he couldn’t have,” Daenerys agrees warmly. 

When Arya finally does go to bed, her mother is already sound asleep. Arya crawls into the pallet beside Sansa--who, she is surprised to see, is still awake. 

“How’s your headache?” 

“It’s alright.” Sansa shifts. “How was Daenerys?”

“She’s amazing,” Arya whispers. “She’s going to let Rickon and me ride her dragon tomorrow.”

Sansa’s face twists. “I see.”

“She’d probably let you come too,” Arya soothes, assuming her sister is upset at not being invited. “She likes you.”

Sansa’s face twists again. 

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Sansa says, which is how Arya knows she’s lying.

“Sansa,  _ what _ ?”

Sansa hesitates for a long moment. “I...she slept with Jon.”

Arya stares at her sister. “What?”

“I saw him. Coming out of her tent the morning we left. It was early and he…” Sansa looks miserable. “I mentioned it later, and he confirmed it.”

Arya can hardly believe what she is hearing. Jon is a man of the Night’s Watch--lying with women is forbidden to him. And he’s a man of honor; he’d never do something like that.

Except, apparently, he did. 

“Why?” she blurts.

“I don’t know.” Sansa’s face hardens. “I hate them.”

“ _ Why _ ?”

Sansa turns onto her back, staring at the tent’s ceiling. 

“Sansa?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Sansa, why are you acting so odd?”

Sansa looks at her. “Do you love me, Arya?”

“Of course I do,” she says, nonplussed. “You’re my sister.”

“What if I wasn’t who you thought I was?”

Arya stares. “What’s going on?”

Sansa bites her lip. “If I tell you something...you have to swear not to tell anyone, but especially not Mother and Rickon.”

“I swear,” Arya says loyally, because she knows that whatever this secret is, it weighs heavily on Sansa. 

It takes a long moment for Sansa to gather the right words.

“I...don’t like men.”

“Does anyone?”

“No, I mean…” She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “I prefer the company of women.”

“You always have,” Arya says, confused.

“ _ No _ , I mean…I can’t fall in love with men. I can only fall in love...with women.”

Understanding floods Arya. “ _ Ooohhhhh. _ ” She looks at the pained expression on her face. “You love Daenerys, don’t you?”

Sansa’s miserable face is all the answer she needs.

“And now you’re upset because she slept with Jon,” Arya surmises.

“She kissed me,” Sansa whispers. “She kissed me and we were going to...we were...I told her I couldn’t because of Andar, and in the morning I saw Jon come out of her tent and I…” She buries her face in her pillow.

Arya’s admiration for the dragon queen is quickly fading. “She had Jon the same night she was going to have you?”

Sansa muffles a sob. 

“That’s terrible.”

“I wanted to,” Sansa says miserably. “I really did. I was going to...but I felt guilty because...because of Andar.”

“Does Andar know?”

“Gods, no.”

Arya lays an arm over her sister, snuggling close. “How long have you known?”

“Not long,” Sansa admits. “Since Dragonstone.”

That isn’t long at all. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t going to tell anybody. I was going to keep it a secret until the day I died.”

Arya considers this. “Sansa...if you like women...you should be with women.”

“But I’m married to a  _ man. _ ”

“A very boring man,” Arya says bluntly. “And you don’t even like him.”

Sansa is quiet for a long moment. “Andar didn’t want me to come,” she says at last. “He forbade me from it, actually. I left without him knowing.” 

Arya grins. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I’m not going to sit around Runestone with his insufferable mother while this war is happening,” Sansa scoffs. “I want to be at home, at  _ Winterfell, _ where I can be useful.”

Arya looks at her sister. “What will you do after the war? About Andar?”

Sansa considers. “I don’t know. Annulling a marriage is difficult, and they aren’t like to grant me an annulment just because I don’t like my husband.”

“I bet Daenerys would grant you an annulment.”

Sansa’s face darkens. “Perhaps.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Catelyn asks groggily.

“Nothing,” they say together.

“Well whisper about it more quietly.”

The sisters muffle their giggles and, smiling at each other, slowly drift off.

.

In the morning, Rickon wolfs down his breakfast, much to Catelyn’s dismay. 

“I want to ride Daenerys’s dragon,” he explains through a mouthful of food. “Arya, aren’t you coming?”

“I think I’ll sit out today,” she says calmly. “You go.”

Rickon doesn’t need to be told twice; he abandons his breakfast and tears off, hoping to find Daenerys before she leaves without him.

Arya  _ would _ like to ride Daenerys’s dragon, of course, but she has something to take care of first.

.

She finds Jon near the head of the column, leading the men onward to Winterfell. He smiles at her when she rides up. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

She hesitates. “Did you really sleep with Queen Daenerys?”

Jon heaves a sigh, the smile gone. “Yes. Did Sansa tell you?”

“Yes.” She sees no point in lying. “Why?”

“Why? Why does it matter?”

“You’re in the Night’s Watch, you’ve sworn to father no children--”

“And I haven’t,” he says, an edge to his voice. “It was one night, and we both agreed it should never have happened.”

That pricks her interest. “Really?”

“Aye.” He glances at his sister. “It’s like you said...I’m a man of the Night’s Watch. I took an oath. And she’s the last Targaryen, a queen in her own right. What happened was...I wouldn’t call it a  _ mistake _ , just...spur of the moment.”

“ _ What _ happened?”

He heaves another sigh. “Nothing, we just...we were talking, first about the march north, the Wall’s defenses, and then it got a little more friendly, and then it got...friendlier.”

“Friendly,” she says flatly.

“What do you want me to say?”  he asks testily. “Aye, I broke my oath, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Anger gives way to regret. “Truth be told, it wasn’t just her I was thinking of.”

“The wildling woman?” she asks in a softer voice. She only knows a little about her, and she’s never pried; it’s clearly painful for Jon to talk about her.

He grimaces. “She was the only woman I ever loved. ‘Love is the death of duty.’ Maester Aemon said that. And sometimes duty is the death of love.” He casts a curious glance at his sister. “Why does it matter to you and Sansa so much?”

“I can’t tell you. Just...don’t do it again, please?”

He looks surprised, but he nods. “I won’t.”

Arya relaxes.

“Truth be told, I don’t think it was just me she was thinking of, either,” he says softly. 

Arya looks up to the skies, where the two dragons are soaring overhead, Daenerys and Rickon with them.

_ Daenerys Targaryen, you have us all under your spell. _

  
  



	90. THEON XIX

As soon as they arrive at Winterfell, Rickon calls the banners. Day by day, more and more Northmen join the encampment surrounding Winterfell, soldiers from every corner of the North. Many of them regard Daenerys and her army with suspicion, but Rickon makes it clear that they are all part of the same army until the enemy has been defeated. 

“And what about after?” the Greatjon asks to a chorus of grumbling. 

“There won’t be an after if we don’t work together,” Rickon says shortly. 

_ But it doesn’t answer the question.  _

Truth be told, Theon has wondered the same thing as the Greatjon. What  _ will _ happen after? Daenerys and Stannis will surely go to war, and that means the North will get involved. How can they fight beside men they know are going to become their enemy? They are all one army, but as soon as the dead have been defeated and Daenerys declares her reign over  _ all _ the Seven Kingdoms, these brothers in arms will turn on one another. 

And if he’s being honest, Theon isn’t so sure that the North will survive it. They’re bigger than any of the other kingdoms in the realm, but no army can match the power of two dragons. If Daenerys wants the North, she’ll get it. And that means Rickon must either bend the knee or die fighting to keep his people free. 

_ It isn’t fair.  _ Rickon is still a boy. He shouldn’t have to be faced with such a decision. He shouldn’t have to do any of this.  _ It should be Robb leading us into war and making these decisions. Robb was a man grown, he was ready. Rickon is still a child.  _

Not for the first time, Theon feels a stab of regret that he wasn’t there to protect Robb. Not that there was anything he could have done--even if he hadn’t been escorting Sansa and Jeyne back to Winterfell, Robb and Jeyne Westerling had been killed in their bed while they slept. There’s nothing he could have done to save them.

And yet, some part of him still feels guilty. He had sworn to serve Robb, he had been a  _ brother _ to Robb. But he hadn’t been there when Robb needed him most.

He’ll not make the same mistake with Rickon. Of that, he is certain.

And speaking of keeping Rickon safe…

The young king insists on training with the sword and bow with more vigor than ever. Every day he spends hours in the practice yard, drilling with the master-at-arms and with Theon and Brienne.

“You can’t be thinking of fighting?” Lady Catelyn asks with some surprise.

“What sort of king would I be if I didn’t?” he retorts. “Robb always fought with his men.”

Catelyn’s face goes white. “Robb was a man grown, you are a  _ boy _ .”

“I am a  _ king _ ,” he says hotly. “Even Joffrey was on the battlements for the Battle of Blackwater.”

“That was different,” she protests. “He was on the battlements, not in the thick of battle, and he wasn’t fighting the Army of the Dead! Stannis would have spared his life, but the Night King will show you no such mercy.”

She has the right of it, but Rickon is determined to fight--and truth be told, he has the right of it, too. He may still be a boy, but he  _ is _ a king, and he cannot order men into battle while he hides behind his mother’s skirts. 

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” Ned Stark would tell them. “If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.”

Going to war is not unlike sentencing a man to death; if a man cannot fight his own war, perhaps there should be no war at all.

“I will go into battle,” Rickon declares. “My Kingsguard will protect me.”

“We will,” Theon swears. 

“Rickon, this war is  _ dangerous _ , this isn’t a game--”

“I  _ know _ it’s dangerous,” he says angrily. “And that’s why I have to go with my men. Why should they fight for a king who hides behind his walls? If I’m not willing to lay down my life for them, why should they do the same for me?”

Catelyn is clearly distressed, but Theon murmurs, “No harm will come to the king, my lady; I swear it.”

She gives him a pained look. “I do not think that is for you to decide, Theon.” She turns back to her son, biting her lip. “I hope you will reconsider, Rickon.”

“I won’t,” he says crossly.

She nods, saddened, and leaves them.

Rickon is quiet for a long moment, petting Shaggydog. “Do you think she’s right, Theon?”

“I think she is afraid,” he says honestly. “I think you are both right.”

“You think I should stay here?”

He hesitates. “May I speak frankly, Your Grace?”

“Always.” Rickon looks at him with trusting eyes. “You’re a brother to me, Theon. I hope you know that.”

_ Am I your brother, now and always? _

Theon swallows the lump in his throat, taking the seat beside Rickon. “Your mother is right that this will be more dangerous than any battle that’s yet been fought. Any other enemy would hold you hostage until they got their way. Any other enemy would know that it would be foolish to kill you. But this isn’t any other enemy. They don’t take hostages or strike bargains to get what they want. What they want is for all of us to die. It doesn’t matter that you are a king or the trueborn son of Ned Stark. You’re just another body for them to kill and raise again. And if they get through me and Brienne and Shaggydog...there will be no one left to defend you.” He swallows again. “But you are right that your men should not lay down their lives for a king who will not lay down his life for them. Robb knew that. Your father knew that. And they’d be proud to see the man you’ve become.”

Rickon gives him a small smile. “I’m not a man yet.”

“No,” Theon agrees. “You’re something more. You’re a  _ king _ .”

Rickon considers all that Theon has said. “You’ll stay by my side? Through all of it?”

The words fall from Theon’s lips before he can stop them. “Am I your brother, now and always?”

Rickon nods gravely. “Now and always.”

“I will stay by your side, through it all,” Theon swears.  _ The way I should have done for Robb. _

  
  



	91. SANSA XXI

Every time more men arrive at Winterfell, Sansa feels a swoop of fear--fear that Andar will be among them, and that he’ll send her back to Runestone.

She hasn’t heard from her husband in over a month, not since she left the camp early that morning. She imagines he’s on his way north now, the Knights of the Vale at his back. What will he do when he sees her again? What will he say? He’ll be angry, certainly, but how angry? Enough to force her back to Runestone with an armed escort? Rickon would never allow it, but Andar is her husband, and he answers to Stannis--not Rickon. Surely,  _ surely _ he wouldn’t waste the resources on sending her back. 

...would he?

“If Andar tries to send me home--”

“I won’t let him,” Arya says through a mouthful of bread. She swallows with effort. “He’s not going to, anyway. Not in front of our whole family.”

Sansa isn’t so sure. He’d seemed determined, and she’d left without so much as a parting word. Honestly, she wouldn’t blame him if he was furious, but that isn’t reason enough for her to meekly submit to his orders.

“He’s got more important things to worry about, anyway,” Arya continues. “He might not be happy, but Winterfell has protected the Starks for eight thousand years; you’ll be safe here.”

Sansa knows that--but does Andar?

Jon enters the great hall then, making a beeline for his sisters. “I need to talk to you,” he murmurs.

Sansa and Arya exchange a look. “Alright…?”

“Not here. Outside. In the godswood.”

They exchange another look, but seeing that Jon is serious, they get up and follow him out of the hall, walking across the yard and into the godswood. Bran is already sitting there, waiting and watching.

Sansa hasn’t really known how to handle Bran. Not that he needs handling, exactly, but she doesn’t know how to act around him anymore. He isn’t the boy she once knew...but then, she isn’t the girl he once knew, either. 

He looks at her now with those dull, impassive eyes of his. It unnerves her, and she shifts so that he’s in her peripheral. “What did you want to talk about?”

Jon hesitates. “What I’m about to tell you...you have to swear you won’t tell anyone. Not even Rickon.”

“What is it?” Arya presses.

He shakes his head. “You have to swear first.”

Sansa huffs, but she knows her brother wouldn’t ask her to swear if it wasn’t important.

“I swear,” Arya agrees.

“I swear,” Sansa echoes.

He nods, glancing at Bran. “I...Bran...discovered something. About me.” He takes a deep breath. “I found out who my mother is.”

Sansa sucks in a breath. There had been rumors and speculations, of course, but no one had ever learned the truth of his mother’s identity, and no one had been allowed to speak of it. Lord Eddard had forbidden any such talk, and there had no question of it in the hearing of Lady Catelyn or her brood. 

“Who?” Arya asks, eyes wide.

He looks at his feet. “She was Lyanna Stark. Your aunt.”

That...can’t be right. Lyanna Stark was their father’s...sister. “I don’t…”

“Ned Stark isn’t my father.” He looks up, his face pained. “Rhaegar Targaryen is. Was. When he kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark, he got her with child. Me. She knew that Robert would never allow me to live if he found out the truth, so she begged Fath--Lord Stark to protect me. He claimed me as his own son to keep me safe, and to keep his promise to my mother.” His  voice cracks. 

“You’re certain?” Sansa breathes, disbelieving.

“I saw it myself,” Bran says in that hauntingly empty voice. 

“Then...you’re not our brother,” Sansa realizes. “You’re our cousin.”

“You  _ are _ our brother,” Arya says fiercely. “Our father was more of a father to you than  _ Rhaegar Targaryen _ ever was. You were raised here, at Winterfell, with us. You’re our brother, no matter the truth of your birth.”

“Yes,” Sansa says faintly, hardly knowing what to make of all this. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he says again. “Not even Rickon.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll tell your mother,” Jon says.

“He knows better,” Sansa protests, but Jon shakes his head.

“I can’t risk it.”

“Wouldn’t you want her to know anyway?” Arya asks. “Then she’d stop hating you for being Father’s bastard.”

“Aye, and she’d want me to take Daenerys’s place to ensure Rickon stays on his throne.”

Daenerys. Sansa hadn’t even considered that until…

“Hang on,” she says, revolted. “That means...Daenerys is your  _ aunt _ .”

“I know it,” he says bitterly. “She can’t know either. No one else can know.”

Arya bites her lip. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. I’m the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch; even if I wanted to do anything, I couldn’t. I just needed you to know.” His dark eyes are earnest. “Please. Don’t tell anyone.”

“We won’t,” Arya swears.

But Sansa wonders how she can possibly keep such a secret.

.

She doesn’t tell anyone. Not Rickon, not her mother, not even Jeyne, whom she tells everything. She doesn’t tell anyone, but it eats at her all the same.

All these years, her father had lied. To protect Jon, who was not even his son. It was all for Lyanna, all for his sister, who died because a man loved her too fiercely, too selfishly. And Jon...long thought to be a northern lord’s bastard, instead the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. If anyone else found out the truth…

But it wouldn’t matter. Just as he said. He’s a man of the Night’s Watch. Men of the Watch put aside their lands and titles when they take the black. They swear a vow to father no children. There is nothing Jon could do now. Unless…

Unless.

They could use Jon’s birth as a bargaining tool. Claim that he is Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son and heir, and that his claim on the throne outweighs Daenerys’s. Use that claim to send her back across the Narrow Sea. It would be a stretch, surely, but the lords of Westeros can be surprisingly flexible when it comes to achieving their ends. It would mean no more war, securing Rickon’s place as King in the North...but it also means sending Daenerys back to Essos, away from here.

_ Away from me. _

As betrayed as she feels by Daenerys taking Jon into her bed, she cannot pretend that she doesn’t still care for the dragon queen. She haunts Sansa’s thoughts and dreams, the taste of her lips and the feel of her hands. 

“She chose Jon,” she whispers to Jeyne when they are abed together.

“You chose Andar,” Jeyne reminds her softly. “Can you blame her?”

Sansa’s eyes fill with tears. “But he’s my  _ brother, _ and it was the same night.”

“Perhaps she was hurt by your rejection.”

“It wasn’t a  _ rejection _ , it was--”

“Sansa.” Jeyne gives her a knowing smile. “Just go to her.”

Sansa swallows. “What if she...what if she doesn’t want--”

“Just  _ go _ .”

Which is how Sansa finds herself standing outside Daenerys’s door, clutching her cloak about her shoulders and waiting for an answer to her knock. She’s forming a mental curse to Jeyne when the door opens at last, Daenerys’s curious face revealed through the gap.

“Lady Sansa.”

“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a stiff curtsy. “I...I was wondering if we might talk.”

Daenerys’s eyes widen before her face closes off completely, becoming a stone mask. “The hour is late, Lady Sansa.”

“I know, and I apologize.” Sansa bites her lip. “I could not sleep, and I...please let me come in, Your Grace.”

Daenerys says nothing for a long moment...and then, silently, she steps aside to let Sansa enter.

Sansa walks in the door, clutching her cloak. Now that she’s here, she doesn’t know what to say. Should she apologize? Tell Daenerys her true feelings?

Instead, she blurts, “Why did you sleep with Jon?”

Daenerys sighs, crossing to the chairs by the fire. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.” Sansa looks at her, askance. “Jon is my  _ brother _ .” In word, if not in truth.

Daenerys has the good grace to look a little ashamed. “Yes. I...it wasn’t planned.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

An irritated expression flashes across Daenerys’s face. “Why should I want to make you feel better? You chose your husband. Why does it matter what I do or who I do it with?”

“I told you I like you,” Sansa says, her voice cracking. “I wanted to be with you, but my husband--”

“The same husband you defied to come here?”

Sansa feels the prick of tears behind her eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“You’re the one who showed up at my door in the middle of the night,” Daenerys (correctly) points out. “It seems you are the one who wants something from me.”

Sansa bites her lip. “Do you hate me?”

Daenerys softens, but only a little. “Of course not.”

Sansa swallows the lump in her throat. “Please...don’t sleep with Jon again.”

“I won’t.” Daenerys lowers her eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I...I shouldn’t have. With your brother. Or anyone, for that matter. You’re...not in an easy position. And you are a woman of honor. It was wrong of me to begrudge you for keeping your vows.”

“I haven’t kept them anyway,” Sansa mumbles. “He commanded me to return home, and instead I snuck out at first light and came here. I disobeyed him.” She takes a deep breath. “And I have not been...faithful.”

“I can’t blame you,” Daenerys says softly. “He sounds...unsatisfactory.”

“That is no excuse.”

“No,” Daenerys agrees. “But it is an explanation.”

Sansa bites her lip. “When you are queen...could you...would you consider...dissolving my marriage, perhaps?”

Daenerys looks at her in interest. “Divorce? An uncommon practice in Westeros. But not unheard of. There would need to be grounds for it...and as queen, my wish is grounds enough.”

Sansa feels her heart leap. “Truly?”

Daenerys gives her a small smile. “I would also like to see you freed from this marriage, Sansa Stark.” She takes a step forward. “And perhaps--”

But before she can finish that sentence, a knock comes at the door. 

“Who is it?” Daenerys asks, looking irritated.

“Apologies, Your Grace; I’m looking for Lady Sansa.”

That’s Jeyne’s voice. Sansa opens the door, blinking at her friend. “Jeyne? What is it?”

Jeyne looks nervous. “I’m sorry, Sansa, I wouldn’t have come if...it...it’s your husband. He’s here.”

Despite the fur cloak and the roaring fire, Sansa feels suddenly cold. “Oh.”

“He sent for you. He wants to talk to you.”

“I see.” Sansa glances at Daenerys. “I…”

“You should go,” Daenerys says softly, without any bitterness or resentment. “We’ll talk more later.”

Sansa nods. “Yes. Thank you for receiving me at this late hour.” She turns to leave, but Daenerys calls her name.

“I’m glad you came to see me,” she says softly.

Sansa smiles. “So am I.” 

.

Andar is waiting for her in the study. Sansa loathes the idea of being alone with him, but Jeyne and Grey Wind are right outside the door, listening. 

Not that Sansa expects Andar to get violent or anything like that, but if he does try to send Sansa away, Jeyne can at least hie her way to Rickon and beg him to intervene. 

Taking a deep breath, Sansa closes the door behind her. Andar’s eyes flicker up, taking in the sight of her wearing a nightgown and cloak, before his eyes drop back down to the map of the North that Rickon left out. 

“You left.”

She takes another deep breath, clutching her cloak tighter around her. “I did.”

His eyes flicker up again. “Well?”

“I don’t regret it,” she tells him. “I would do it again. I want to be here.”

He sighs, looking back down at the map. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t want to be at Runestone. You want to be here.” 

“This war--”

“I’m not talking about this war,” he says impatiently. “I’m talking about you. You don’t like Runestone. You don’t like  _ me _ .”

She winces. “Andar...we both knew going into this that it wasn’t a love match.”

“But  _ I _ grew to love  _ you _ ,” he says, his voice pained.

Sansa closes her eyes. “Andar…”

“I’ve tried, Sansa. I really have.”

She opens her eyes. “You forbade me from coming back here.”

“To  _ protect _ you!”

“Winterfell is the safest place I know!” Her voice rises to match his. “And this is my family--the Northmen are my people. I couldn’t just sit at home and helplessly wait for you to come marching back from war.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You do not have to love me back, Sansa, but to defy my wishes--”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupts, her voice cold. “I’m here.”

He studies her for a moment. “When this war is over...will you return to Runestone with me, and defer to me as your lord and husband?”

She swallows. Should she bring up a dissolution to their marriage now? Or should she wait until Daenerys is queen (if that even happens, and with this war, there’s no telling) before broaching the subject? 

But Andar sees the hesitation on her face and sighs. “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. 

He straightens up. “I’m going to stay with my father’s encampment. When I get back...we’ll talk more.”

She watches him go, feeling a guilty surge of relief at his parting.

When she leaves the room a few minutes later, long enough to put a healthy distance between them, Jeyne peers at her with some concern. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says honestly. “I’m...relieved. Andar’s going to stay in his father’s encampment.”

Jeyne rubs her back. “And Daenerys?”

Sansa’s smile is all the answer Jeyne needs.


	92. ARYA XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, my mom is coming into town so idk how much time I'll have to write! Hopefully can still get an update to you next week.

Most of the realm’s armies have gathered at Winterfell when the dragonglass mined from Dragonstone arrives. Jon has been anxiously waiting for it, and his shoulders sag in relief when a messenger informs him that a train of wagons from Eastwatch is a day’s ride away. 

“Once we can forge it into weapons, we’ll be ready,” Jon says. “And now that most of the armies are gathered…” He trails off, looking over the battlements.

Arya looks, too. The armies span all around the castle as far as the eye can see. This is nearly the full force of the realm, all seven kingdoms. What men they’re waiting on are from smaller houses on the outskirts of their respective territories, and truth be told, they could march with what they have now. It’s an impressive army.

_ But is it big enough? _

Arya doesn’t know how big the Army of the Dead is, but she knows that the wights are deadlier than any living soldier, and she knows that Jon wouldn’t have asked for the realm’s full support if they didn’t need it. What if the men of the Seven Kingdoms aren’t enough? What if all the dragons and dragonglass in the world aren’t enough to defeat the Night King and his army?

“This castle is aptly named.”

Arya and Jon turn, seeing Stannis and his red woman approaching them. They both bow to Stannis, but it is the red woman who speaks.

“Winterfell. The place where the demons of winter were felled by the First Men and the Children of the Forest. And now it is the gathering place for the army that will see them defeated once and for all.”

“Gods be good,” Jon says grimly.

“There is only one god, Jon Snow. The Lord of Light.” Melisandre wears a look that suggests she finds something amusing...though what, Arya couldn’t say. “He has worked through you to bring the armies of Westeros here to defeat the Night King.”

“Something was working through me, alright,” Jon admits. “Your Grace, I cannot thank you enough for the support.”

“It is as Melisandre said; the Lord of Light has worked through you,” the king intones. “We are but his servants.”

“As you say,” Jon says politely. 

Melisandre’s glittering eyes find Arya. “Your destiny approaches, Lady Stark. Can you feel it?”

Arya blinks at her. “What?”

“It draws ever closer. I have seen it in the flames.” She smiles. “You will know it when the time is right.” She sweeps away, Stannis striding beside her.

“What was  _ that _ ?” Arya asks in confusion.

“I don’t know.” Jon glances at her. “Your  _ destiny _ …”

“She’s strange,” Arya says bluntly. “But I like her. I hear Stannis means to take her beyond the Wall to fight the Army of the Dead.”

“As king, that is his right.”

She looks up at her brother. “I want to go, too.”

Jon heaves a sigh. “Arya…”

“Rickon is fighting, and I’m older than him, and a better fighter,” she points out. “Everyone says so, even him.”

“Arya.”

“And anyway, he’s the King in the North; if one of us is going to risk our life fighting, it should be me, and not him.”

“ _ Arya _ .”

“ _ What _ ?”

Jon looks pained. “I cannot stop you from going, but I cannot urge you enough to stay here. You’ve never fought before, not really. It’s not like sparring in the yard with a master-at-arms. The wights...they don’t care for honor or the rules of war or anything like that. They only have one instinct: to kill. They don’t care that you’re a girl, or the sister of a king. They only care that you’re a body they can turn into one of them.”

“I’m not afraid,” Arya insists. 

Jon looks grim. “You should be.”

.

Arya knows that, in all likelihood, she will not be allowed to go beyond the Wall. Rickon might be willing to let her go, but Catelyn never would. If she truly wants to go beyond the Wall, she’ll have to sneak her way there. She could do it--in all the chaos and confusion of the biggest army Westeros has ever seen marching north, she could easily disguise herself as a squire and go with them. No one would pay any attention to her, and by the time her mother noticed her missing, it would be too late. 

But should she? It will be dangerous, and there’s a high chance that she won’t come home.

But this is more than just a struggle for power between two highborns. This is quite literally the fate of the world as they know it. They need  _ every _ sword they can get, and Arya is better than most of the green boys that have been rounded up and had spears thrust into their hands. She could make a difference. Worst comes to worst, she could be another sword in defense of the King in the North. 

_ But what if I never come home? What if a White Walker kills me and turns me into a wight and my sword is turned against my brothers? _

It’s a chilling thought, and one that bears consideration. Is she truly ready for her life to end? If she survives but Jon and Rickon do not, will she ever forgive herself? Will her mother and Sansa and Bran ever forgive her?

She’s roused from her thoughts by the shout of the sentry at the east gate. 

“The dragonglass,” Jon says, relief evident on his face. “Finally.”

Curious to see this dragonglass for herself, Arya follows him--and stops short.

Because riding on one of the carts is Gendry.

They’d been little more than children the last time they’d seen each other. He’d been older, nearly a man grown, but she was still a skinny little girl that passed for a skinny little boy. Now, he truly is a man grown, and she…

_ You’re a highborn. A lady. _

She’s torn between marching up to him and running away. She both wants him to see her now and cringes at the very thought. Will he think badly of her for returning to her highborn home and family? Will he be glad to see her again? Does he even remember her?

Jon strides forward to greet Gendry, and the other men with him. They seem to know each other, which surprises Arya--when exactly did they meet? Gendry wears colors--not many, but enough for Arya to know that he hasn’t taken the black. But why would he be with the dragonglass?

_ He’s a smith. And though he said he wouldn’t, he’s serving my brother. It’s what I wanted, but he never did. _

The dragonglass and Gendry move into the forge, Jon talking and instructing the men. Arya stands rooted to the spot, her heart beating oddly fast.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Sansa comments, standing beside her sister. 

“Something like that.”

Sansa glances down at her. “What is it?”

Arya tells her about Gendry, from the way they met to the way they parted to his being here now. Sansa has the nerve to  _ smirk _ . 

“So you fancy him.”

“I do not,” Arya says, perplexed and a little indignant.

“You do! The way you talk about him, the way you’re all nervous now…” Arya would like to smack the grin from Sansa’s face. “You fancy him. Is he handsome?”

Arya remembers the day she’d seen him without a shirt in Harrenhal and turns red.

“He is!” Sansa crows. “I want to see him.”

“You stay away from him,” Arya says sharply. “I haven’t even decided what I’m going to say to him yet.”

“No time like the present.” And with that, Sansa practically skips into the forge.

“Sansa!” Arya hisses, chasing after her sister. Quick as she is, Sansa has longer legs, and they carry her into the forge with speed and ease. 

“Is this the dragonglass?” Sansa asks cheerfully, feigning ignorance.

“Aye; mined from Dragonstone,” Jon tells her. “Ser Gendry here is a smith; he’s going to make weapons for us.”

“Gendry? Like Arya’s friend?” 

“Arya?” Jon asks in confusion. 

“Sansa,” Arya hisses, reaching for her sister’s arm and hoping to tug her away, but a pair of blue eyes she’d know anywhere lock with hers. 

“Arya?”

She withdraws her hand, straightening her spine. “Hello, Gendry.”

“You two know each other?” Jon asks sharply, looking between the two.

“It’s a long story,” Arya says shortly, never taking her eyes from Gendry. “We had some adventures together.”

“Gendry was at Eastwatch with Beric, Thoros, and the Hound when Queen Daenerys sent me to bring back a wight,” Jon explains. “He ventured beyond the Wall with us.”

Arya can’t help but be impressed at that. “Truly?”

He ducks his head. “Truly.”

She schools her face into a nonchalant expression. “Well, perhaps you’re not a stupid bull after all.”

He looks up at her, grinning. “As you say, m’lady.”

“Do not call me m’lady.” And with that, she turns on her heel, sauntering out of the forge. She doesn’t think she’s imagining Gendry’s eyes on her.


	93. JAIME VI

They see the army camped around Winterfell from a mile away. Jon hadn’t been exaggerating, then; he really did manage to get every army in Westeros to march up here. 

Jaime only hopes they’re ready to fight.

Most of the men in the camps are too cold and too distracted to pay any mind to the brothers of the Night’s Watch riding past them. They’re alive, after all, and in their books, that makes them friends. It’s the dead you have to watch out for.

They have to leave their horses a good walk from the keep; there are so many horses that they’ve had to erect temporary stables. Jaime doesn’t complain; he and his brothers hand over their horses and make the long walk to Winterfell.

The chaos inside the castle’s walls is almost as great as the chaos out in the camp. Servants and lords and knights are walking this way and that, all of them in a hurry, and Jaime despairs of ever getting anyone’s attention. It’s only by a stroke of sheer luck that his eyes land on someone he’d not thought to see again.

“Lady Brienne?”

She looks at him, baffled. “Ser Jaime.” She comes closer, curious. “What are you doing here?”

“I came for the Lord Commander. It is a matter of some urgency.”

She nods. “Very well. The King in the North is holding court in the great hall, and Lord Snow is with him; perhaps you could--”

“I would speak to him privately,” Jaime says softly. “Lest I cause a panic.”

Brienne is visibly troubled. “Should I be worried, ser?”

“We should all be.”

.

Jaime and Edd wait in the study. A serving maid brings them ale and bread, and they’ve finished both by the time Jon arrives.

“Edd, Jaime,” he says, puzzled. “What brings you here? Who’s manning Castle Black?”

“No one. It matters not.”

“They got through, Jon,” Jaime says wearily. “The Army of the Dead. They destroyed Eastwatch.” 

Jon stares at them, speechless. It takes a long moment for his lips to form words. “How?”

Jaime takes a breath. “Well, that’s the strange part. The men who came to Castle Black said it was a dragon.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “A  _ dragon? _ ” 

“From the way they described him...I think it must have been Daenerys’s fallen dragon. The Night King resurrected him and made him part of his army.”

Jon closes his eyes. “Gods, I should have known that would happen. As soon as he took down Viserion…” He opens his eyes. “Do we know where they are now?”

“Still in the Gift, I would imagine. The men who escaped rode hard from Eastwatch, and we made all haste from Castle Black.” 

“We don’t have much time,” Jon frets. “If you just got here, they can’t be far behind, even if they go slowly. They could get here any day now.”

“I know,” Jaime says softly. 

“We’re fucked,” Edd supplies. 

Jon rubs his face, looking aged beyond his years. “We should tell the men. Start planning for an attack. We should get the women and children out of here as soon as possible, send them south. Or west; have Queen Asha take them to the Iron Islands until this has all...until it’s over.” 

“Just tell us what to do,” Jaime says quietly. “You know we’ll follow you.”

Jon keeps rubbing his face. “I need to speak to my brother and the others--Stannis, Asha, Daenerys. I need to...figure out what to do.”

“Best do it quickly, then,” Edd says, not unkindly. “We haven’t got a moment to lose.”

.

While Jon meets with the kings and queens, Jaime finds himself wandering around Winterfell. Few, if any, pay attention to him, and those that do can barely spare more than a withering glance before they rush off to wherever they’re going. They may not know about the Wall yet, but there’s a sense of urgency among the castle and all its inhabitants. No one has said the words yet, but they seem to know what’s coming for them. 

_ The army Jon mustered is big, but is it big enough? Is anything? What will it take to destroy them once and for all? _

He’s pondering this, wondering if all the dragonglass in the world will make a difference, when he sees a ghost.

His breath catches in his throat, his jaw working futilely. 

_ Cersei. _

She stands on the wooden walkway opposite him, her golden hair fanned out around her shoulders, clutching tawny furs around her. He wonders if perhaps this is an apparition, a reminder of the first time he came to Winterfell with his sweet sister...but she’s real. Or at least, she seems to be. She’s turned to the side, talking to someone. 

He stumbles down the walkway, trying to reach her. The damn walkways have multiple levels and stairs going up and down, and with every fresh new obstacle, Jaime fears that Cersei will be gone by the time he reaches her. There’s no reason she should be here, none at all, but…

He sees her at last, gold hair shining even under the dull, grey sky. He stumbles towards her…

And realizes that it’s not Cersei. 

She turns her head, and instead of Cersei’s face, he sees another familiar face he’d not thought to see again.

“Myrcella?”

She looks at him with lips parted, her green eyes wide. 

_ She looks just like her mother, gods help us. _

“Uncle Jaime?” 

She comes forward, still clutching her furs. She’s even the same height as Cersei, her face tipping back to look at him the way Cersei’s used to. 

_ She’s my daughter. Our daughter. Gods be good. _

She stands before him, her breath forming white clouds. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” he says softly. 

She lowers her eyes. “I didn’t think to see you again.”

“Nor I you.”

“Mother--” she starts to say, and then falls silent. 

“You look just like her.”

This is evidently the wrong thing to say, because Myrcella’s eyes flash. “I don’t want to. She was a horrible person.”

“She was fierce...but all she did, she did for love.”

Myrcella looks almost pitying. “You don’t truly believe that, do you?”

Now it’s his turn to look away.

“Did you know?” she asks softly. “About...me, and Tommen, and Joffrey…?”

He hesitates for a beat too long.

Her face closes up. “You did know, and you didn’t care.” She starts to walk away, but Jaime grabs her arm.

“Myrcella,” he says in a low voice. “What happened in the past...I’m sorry about it. I am. I can never undo it. But let me try to make things right.”

“How?” she asks stubbornly.

“Let me protect you.” He looks around, and seeing that some of the others are watching them curiously, he leans in closer. “I just came from Castle Black. The Wall has fallen to the Army of the Dead. They’ll be here any day now--and I don’t want you to be here when they come. Go south. As far south as south goes.”

Her eyes widen. “The Wall has fallen? Truly?”

“Truly,” he confirms. “Let me be the father to you I never was and take care of you now.”

“I…” Myrcella looks around, her eyes wet and shining. “I can’t leave my husband.”

_ Husband _ . That’s right, she’s married now, to Trystane Martell.  _ Even with her bastard birth acknowledged, she is still a princess. _ “Your husband would want you to be safe, would he not?”

She hesitates. “Yes, but...I couldn’t leave him.”

“Staying could mean dying,” he tells her gently.

She straightens her back. “I would rather die with Trystane than live without him.”

“This isn’t the time for sentimentality, Myrcella.”

“If he dies and I live, I will spend the rest of my life feeling sentimental,” she says crossly. “My place is with my husband.”

He feels a grudging sort of respect for her. She is a lioness of the rock, alright.  _ Cersei would be proud. _ “You must do what you feel is right.” Tentatively, he reaches out a hand, touching her cheek. “I would only hate to lose you.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, and he can hardly blame her. He was never there for her before, never paid her the attention he ought to have. Cersei had forbidden it, afraid someone would figure out the truth, and he’d loved his sweet sister enough to do as she said. But Cersei is gone now, and Myrcella is here, and all the world knows that he is her father.  _ Perhaps it’s not too late for me. _

She hesitates. “Unc--Ser Jaime...I…”

“Kingkiller!”

He looks down into the yard, stunned to see none other than Tormund Giantsbane standing in the muck, waving his arms like a windmill. There are other men with him, all of them dressed in furs and black raiment. Brothers of the Night’s Watch and wildlings, he’d wager. He turns to look at Myrcella. “I...hold on.” He runs down the stairs and towards Tormund, who looks happy to see him. “What are you doing here?!”

The smile slips from Tormund’s face. “Came to warn Jon. The Night King…”

“I know. He’s broken through the Wall,” Jaime says grimly.

Tormund shakes his head. “It’s not just that.”

Jaime’s heart thunders in his chest. “No?”

“We just came from the Last Hearth. The people...they’re all gone.”

Jaime’s blood turns cold. The Last Hearth is closer to the Wall than it is to Winterfell...but still. House Umber’s servants and serfs, all succumbed to the Night King.  _ And all made into soldiers for his army. _

“How long do we have?” Jaime asks.

“The truth?” Tormund shakes his head. “Before the sun comes up tomorrow.”


	94. THEON XX

To say that Theon is on edge would be a vast understatement. 

He’d already been tense with the planned march north, but then he’d found out that the dead had gotten through the Wall and were marching south, and  _ then _ he’d found out that they were mere hours away from Winterfell. Lady Catelyn had taken it upon herself to organize the women and children heading for Cerwyn, with the hope that if the fighting went badly, they could follow the White Knife to White Harbor. The wights can’t swim, or so Jon says, and they might have a fighting chance if they can get to ships and sail away from Westeros. 

They send the last wagonload out at dusk. None of the Stark women are on it, and neither is Jeyne. He hadn’t really expected any of them to go, but it worries him all the same. Winterfell is safe, he knows that--it’s currently surrounded by every soldier in Westeros. But that doesn’t mean the dead won’t find a way to get in. 

“I have seen two of my sons through war; I will not stop now,” Catelyn had decreed.

“I won’t abandon my people,” Sansa had agreed.

“I want to fight,” Arya had supplied.

“I will never leave Sansa’s side,” Jeyne had sworn. And softer, to him, “Nor yours.”

He longs to lock her away in his room and lose himself in the feel of her. He longs to bury his face in her sweet-smelling neck, to draw lavender and rosemary-scented breaths until the world seems a little less frightening. He longs to feel her fingers running through his hair, her soft voice murmuring and humming as she tells him it will be alright. 

_ Just like a child, _ he thinks derisively.  _ I am a knight of the kingsguard, an ironborn prince. _

_ Yet what am I without her? _

.

Night has fallen by the time all the kings, queens, lords, ladies, captains, brothers of the Night’s Watch, and all the rest have gathered for what may very well be their final war council. The room is painfully quiet as everyone looks to Jon, waiting for him to tell them what to do. He knows the Night King better than anyone. Tonight, they hope he will end him.

“They’re coming,” Jon begins, and though he’s never been what Theon would call  _ lighthearted _ , he looks graver now than he ever has before. “We have dragonglass. We have dragons. We have every army in the Seven Kingdoms, and two of the fiercest armies from Essos. But we cannot assume that this will be enough to protect us. For every man that falls, another soldier is added to the Night King’s army. We cannot afford mistakes, cannot afford anything that might get any of us killed.”

“What do you suggest?” Queen Daenerys asks softly. 

He takes a deep breath. “To do the most damage, we have to destroy the White Walkers. When a White Walker falls, so do all the wights he turned. I’m  _ assuming _ that if the Night King falls, then the entire army will fall, White Walkers and all. Our best hope of defeating the army is to kill the Night King.”

“If what you say is true, then he’ll never reveal himself,” Stannis all but snorts. “We’ll have to cut down every wight and White Walker to get to him.”

“Not necessarily.”

Everyone turns to look at Bran, who sits near the fire with an expression that could almost be called troubled. “The Night King wants to kill the Three Eyed Raven.”

“Why?” Arya asks.

“It’s hard to explain,” Bran says. “I know the truth about him.”

“The truth?”

“The Night King was a man once,” he explains. “The Children of the Forest pushed a blade of dragonglass into his heart and made him what he is--undead. He was meant to be a weapon to be used against the First Men. Killing men was all he knew. And as he killed more and more of them and turned them into weapons of his own, he created more White Walkers, and he turned them against the Children of the Forest. They only know how to destroy, because to destroy was the only thought that had been put into them when they were made. Somewhere beneath the ice is a man named Brandon Stark, and he remembers what happened to him. He doesn’t want anyone else to know that he was once a man, that he was once the very thing he now seeks to destroy. The Three Eyed Raven is the only person who’s seen what happened to him. If he kills me, he kills any memory of the man he used to be.”

Sansa shudders. Theon wonders if she’s thinking the same thought as him: that underneath that cold, odd exterior, perhaps there is another Brandon Stark who seeks to destroy any memory of his old self. 

“Does he know who you are? What you look like?” Jon asks.

“Yes. He marked me.” Bran pulls up his sleeve, revealing a horrific bruise shaped like fingers. “He always knows where I am.”

“Then we should put you deep within the castle--”

“No,” Bran says firmly, pushing his sleeve back down his arm. “If we lure him out into the open, we can end this before he has a chance to destroy us all. The sooner we kill him, the sooner it ends. I’ll wait for him in the godswood.”

“You want us...to use you as bait?” Catelyn realizes with dawning comprehension.

“Yes,” Bran says simply. 

“And what are you going to do, fight him?” Arya asks hotly.

“The Three Eyed Raven does not fight.”

Everyone turns to look at Stannis’s red woman, who, as always, looks as if she knows something the others don’t. “This battle will be decided by one man: the prince that was promised, Azor Ahai reborn. King Stannis is he who was promised, and it is he who shall kill the Night King.”

Theon doesn’t know what to make of this confident assertion--but he decides that maybe that doesn’t matter. What matters is that someone does something.

“I will do it,” Stannis declares solemnly. 

“You must have protection,” Catelyn insists. “Both of you.”

“I have men enough,” Stannis assures her. 

“I’ll be there, too,” Jon says in a tone that brooks no refusal. “I’ve been fighting the White Walkers for a long time now, I’ve seen what the Night King can do. I want to watch when he dies.”

“As you will,” Stannis says, indifferent. “In the meantime, these wights will attack, and we must be ready for them.”

“I will command in the field,” Asha says. “King Rickon will command from the ramparts, and Queen Daenerys will, I imagine, command the skies.”

“That is my plan,” Daenerys agrees. 

“Could the Night King not...be killed by fire?” Sansa asks.

“I don’t know,” Bran admits. “No one’s ever tried.”

“They will tonight,” Daenerys promises. 

Stannis grits his teeth. “The prophecy says that the prince that was promised will destroy the great Other with his sword--I must be the one to kill him.”

“With all due respect,” Daenerys says coldly, “this isn’t about your prophecy. This is about the fate of mankind. If I have the opportunity, I  _ will _ destroy the Night King, not let him pass me by so that you can have the honor.”

Stannis looks murderous, but the red woman lays her hand on his arm and murmurs something in his ear. He closes his mouth, but even so, Theon can hear his teeth grinding.

“It’s decided, then,” Catelyn says briskly. “Now, my lords, my ladies, Your Graces, may I suggest we all get some rest? The battle ahead promises to be a long one.”

“I don’t think any of us will be able to rest tonight,” Jaime Lannister mutters, but no one argues with him. They all know that he’s right.

The council disbands, everyone going to their respective comforts--be it their beds, a flagon of wine, or the arms of the one they love.

Theon means to follow Rickon, but the little king looks at him with a bittersweet smile. “You don’t need to come, Theon. I don’t think anyone is going to try to assassinate me. Not tonight.”

Theon returns the smile. “I think you’re right, Your Grace.”

Rickon touches his arm, speaking softly. “I know where you want to go. I’ll be safe. I know you’ll find me when the time comes.”

Theon can only nod his head. The young king smiles again, squeezing his arm before turning to his mother. At ten, Rickon is still a child, and he sinks gratefully into his mother’s embrace, letting her lead him out the door. It makes Theon’s heart ache.

Asha rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t die so far from the sea, little brother.” She hugs him. “But kill the bastards anyway.”

.

He finds Jeyne already in his chamber, hands clasped in her lap and lip swollen from nervous biting. She leaps to her feet when he enters, still wringing her hands. 

“Theon--”

He crosses to her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her tight against him. He takes several deep, shuddering breaths, his nose buried in the crook of her neck.

“It’s true, then?” she asks softly. “They’re coming here? Tonight?”

“It’s true,” he murmurs. 

She clutches him. “Be careful.”

“I will.” He pulls back to look at her. “I’ll be with Rickon on the ramparts.”

Her face clears, but only a little. “Good.” She hesitates. “Sansa...wants to be on the ramparts as well--”

“No.”  

She frowns. “She does not answer to you.”

“Jeyne,” he says warningly. “I don’t want you out there. It’s dangerous.”

“My place is by her side,” she says stubbornly. “Besides, Lady Catelyn will be there.”

“All the more reason for you and Sansa to be inside where it’s safe.”

“I can use a bow and arrow,” she reminds him. “I’m good at it.”

“You’ve never fought before,” he reminds her. 

“I’ve killed men before.” 

“That isn’t the same thing.” He takes her hands, trying to impress the seriousness of this on her. “These creatures...you saw them. One of them. Imagine what hundreds of thousands of them will be like.”

She wavers, but only for a moment. “You won’t let anything happen to me.”

He cradles the back of her head, pressing his forehead to hers. “Jeyne. I cannot protect Rickon if I’m concerned for you.”

She hesitates. “When Sansa retreats, so will I. Until then, I will be on the ramparts with her.”

He sighs. “Good enough.”

She pulls away from him, going to the table to pour a cup of water. “Was that really Beric Dondarrion who came this afternoon?”

The question throws him off. “I suppose.”

“He’s so different from the last time I saw him.” She sips from her cup, pensive.

Theon is happy for the distraction. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“At the Hand’s tourney in King’s Landing...before everything went wrong.” She smiles, reminiscing. “He was so handsome that day, so fierce.” She giggles. “I told Sansa I was ready to marry him then and there.”

Theon frowns. This is not the sort of distraction for which he’d been hoping. “Really.”

“Yes. I was quite taken with him.” She pauses to consider. “I suppose I still am. I never thought I’d like men with a beard, or an eyepatch, but it  _ adds _ something, don’t you think?”

“I think he’s ugly,” Theon says rudely. 

To his irritation, Jeyne’s smile widens. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” he lies. “Why would I be jealous of an ugly old one-eyed outlaw who’s probably going to die in a few hours?”

Her face falls, and he instantly feels like an idiot.

“That was unkind,” he rushes to say. “He’s a great warrior, I’m sure he’ll be fine--”

“It’s not that,” she says, setting down her cup. “It’s...we could  _ all _ die.  _ You _ could die.” Her voice catches. “And I don’t think I can live without you.”

“You will.” He takes her hand, squeezing. “You’re strong.”

“What if you  _ do _ die?” she whispers. 

He cups her cheek, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Jeyne. I will do whatever it takes to get back to you. Do you hear me? I’ll kill the Night King myself if it means getting to see you again.” 

She smiles through her tears. He kisses her, soft at first, but it becomes passionate and desperate in only a moment. She makes the sweetest mewling sounds against his mouth, desperate for more--and who is he to deny her?

“Theon,” she says at last, pulling away and breathing hard. “I want...to be with you. The...the way a man and woman...I want to feel you... _ inside _ me.”

He sucks in a breath. Never, not once have they done that. They’ve done plenty of other things, all intended for her comfort and pleasure, but never that. She’d been afraid, and he’d never wanted to frighten her. She’s afraid now, too, and fear has made her speak words she doesn’t mean.

“Jeyne,” he says hoarsely. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she insists. “This could be our last night together. Our last  _ hour _ , even. And I...Theon, I  _ want _ to be with you.”

He cups her cheek again. “And if we both survive and you gave yourself to me for naught?”

“It wouldn’t be for naught,” she says fiercely. “I love you, Theon Greyjoy, and I could never regret loving you. I want this. Truly. And I believe that you want me.”

He drops his eyes to the floor. “More than you know. But I’d never--”

“I know.” She gazes up at him softly. “And I love you for that.” She rises up on her toes, kissing him. He kisses her back, and when she pushes him onto the bed, he doesn’t resist. 

  
  



	95. ARYA XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially pre-written the entire Long Night AND I'M EXCITED! Updates are gonna be sort of all over the place but. Hope you like.

Arya sits up with her family for a long time. Rickon and her mother sit quietly in the solar, arms around each other as they stare into the fire. Bran sits in the corner, quiet as always. Sansa keeps getting up and pacing, her hands wringing. The wolves are outside, too restless to sit in one place. 

Arya is restless, too. She’s full of nervous energy and wants to do something with it. 

“I’m going for a walk,” she says at last. “I can’t...sit here.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sansa offers. 

Catelyn opens her mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and closes her mouth. The two sisters leave the solar together, vibrating with every step. 

“I’m nervous,” Sansa admits. 

“So am I.”

Sansa glances at her sister. “Do you think...we’ll be safe? Inside the keep?”

“I don’t know,” Arya admits. “Normally I’d say yes--Father always used to say that five hundred men could hold Winterfell against ten thousand. But these aren’t men.”

Sansa shudders.

“Sansa?”

“Mm?”

“If we survive this war...what will you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, will you go back to Runestone with Andar? Or...something else?”

“Something else,” Sansa murmurs. “Andar and I...it wasn’t meant to be. In another life, I think I might have come to be happy with him, but in this one…”

“You’re not.”

Sansa shakes her head. “No.”

“You want to be with Daenerys.”

Sansa’s breath catches on a sigh. “Yes.”

“You should go to her,” Arya urges. “This may be the last night you two get to spend together.”

Sansa hesitates. “What if she doesn’t want to spend it with me?”

“Sansa. I may not have your...preferences, but even I can see that you’re the most beautiful woman in the North, and you’re charming and clever, and if she doesn’t want to spend tonight with you, then she’s a fool.”

Sansa smiles at her sister. “I think that’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“I think so too,” Arya agrees. “Now go to her and find out what it’s like to ride a dragon.”

“Arya!” Sansa exclaims, cheeks red, but smiling all the same. “Very well then. I’ll find Daenerys...if  _ you _ find Ser Gendry.”

Arya, who wasn’t expecting that, finds her own cheeks reddening. “What?”

“Oh, please; you think I don’t know lust when I see it?”

“Apparently not,” Arya retorts. 

“Arya, I’ve never seen you flirt before, but you were  _ absolutely _ flirting with him in the forge. And he was flirting back!”

“We’re just friends.”

“For now.” Sansa touches her shoulder. “This may be the last night you two get to spend together.”

Arya can’t exactly with her own words being thrown back at her. “Well. Perhaps.” 

“If I’m going to ride a dragon, I think  _ you _ ought to ride...what did you call him? A bull?”

“Sansa!”

“Let him hammer your anvil?”

“Sansa Stark!”

“Don’t be such a septa!” Sansa’s grinning. “You want him. And he wants you. So what’s stopping you?” And before Arya can protest, Sansa walks away, in the direction of Daenerys’s chamber.

.

She finds Gendry in the forge, polishing a warhammer. He looks up at her approach, a soft smile touching his face. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” she says unnecessarily. 

“Yeah. Thought you’d come looking for me.” He sets aside the warhammer, reaching for a long, thin knife wrapped in leather. “I made this for you.”

“For me?” She’s touched. She grasps the hilt and pulls it free of its sheath. It’s a dragonglass blade, the edge sharp and serrated. 

“I tried to make one like your old blade--like Needle,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But dragonglass isn’t as easy to temper as steel, and it kept breaking, so I made you this instead.”

“You made more than one?” she asks, touched. “Like Needle?”

“I tried,” he mumbles. “If we make it through this battle, I’ll work on another one.”

_ Another one. _ Could he truly care so much? Has he always? 

“You know, last time we saw each other, you wanted me to come to Winterfell,” he offers, still looking sheepish. “Took the long road, but…”

Arya bites her lip. “I said that I could be your family. And you said--”

“You wouldn’t be family. You’d be m’lady,” he says softly. She doesn’t miss the tender look in his eyes.  _ I know lust when I see it, _ Sansa had said. Is this lust? Or is this something else?

“You stayed with the Brotherhood, then?”

“I did. I was at an inn for a while, caring for some orphans. Sometimes Beric and Thoros and the others would come to me with jobs. Tasks. But sooner or later the Brotherhood disbanded, and it was just the three of us left.”

“I saw Beric; where’s Thoros?”

“Dead,” he says shortly. “A bear--not a normal bear, a, an undead bear--attacked him. He didn’t make it through the night.”

Arya feels strangely sorrowful at this news. “Oh.” With a cheerfulness she doesn’t feel, she says, “Beric had better be careful tonight, with no one to bring him back if he dies again.”

Gendry gives her a small smile. “We’d all better be careful.”

Arya grips the knife, turning it this way and that so that it catches the light. She gives a few practice lunges, swiping and slashing with the blade. It sails cleanly through the air.

“Do you remember the Peach?” she asks suddenly.

“Er...yeah,” he says, surprised. 

“Do you remember that one girl--Bella? She wanted you to ring her bells.” Her voice tightens. “Did you?”

Gendry splutters. “I...of course I didn’t--”

“Did you ring any other girls’ bells?” she finds herself asking, hating how jealous her voice sounds. 

He stammers, beet-red. 

“You don’t remember?” 

“I...yes, I did,” he manages.

“One? Two? Twenty?” She doesn’t know what’s possessing her to act like this, to talk to him in this way. 

“I didn’t keep count,” he snaps, and once again, he’s the stubborn bull she used to know. 

“Yes you did,” she retaliates.

He hesitates, all the anger melting from him. His shoulders sag. “Three. Three girls.”

Arya bites her lip. “Gendry?”

“What?”

She sets down the knife. “We’re probably going to die soon. I want to know what it’s like before that happens.”

His face is equal parts elated and sorrowful. “Arya--”

She lunges for him.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing, but it doesn’t seem to matter; Gendry’s arms wrap around her, holding her against him as he kisses her. She imitates him, trying out the unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensations. She likes kissing, she learns quickly--and if she’s not mistaken, Gendry seems to like kissing her.

“Arya,” he murmurs after a moment, but he doesn’t let go of her. “You’re...you’re a lady, I’m just a blacksmith--”

“You’re Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill,” she murmurs back. “And you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to be with.”

“You were a child the last time we met,” he reminds her, but still, he has not let go of her.

“And now I’m a woman.” She kisses him again, dragging her teeth along his lip. “Surely you’ve noticed.”

He huffs out a laugh. 

“It’ll be like Acorn Hall,”  she urges, already tugging at his clothes. “When we wrestled in the smithy and you tore my dress.”

“Gods, woman,” he grunts, helping her take off his clothes. She kisses him again, their hands fumbling to take off each other’s clothes. When they’re naked at last, she pushes him onto the sacks of grain. He looks at her in awe, like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It makes her blush from head to toe. How can he have been with girls at the Peach and still think her pretty? 

“Arya,” he says in a strained voice. “Come here...please.”

She likes the sound of that. She goes to him, climbing on the sacks of grain and straddling his body. She can feel his hardness between her legs, and it makes her shiver with anticipation. 

“Are you nervous?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Nervous you won’t get a move on,” she says before she can help it.

Gendry grins. “You’re the one in control here, m’lady.”

“How many times?” She touches him, guiding him to her center. “Do  _ not _ call me…” she sinks onto him, and never, not once in her life, has she felt like this. “ _...m’lady.” _

  
  



	96. SANSA XXII

Sansa’s heart pounds the whole way to Daenerys’s room. She’s still worried that Arya’s wrong, that Daenerys won’t want to see her at all. Agreeing to grant Sansa a divorce is one thing, but to spend what may well be her last night in this world with her…

Her fist stops trembling long enough to knock on the door; when she drops it, she sucks in a breath, wishing and waiting.

Daenerys opens the door, her face clearing. “Sansa.”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Daenerys steps back, allowing Sansa to enter. She closes the door behind the other woman. 

Sansa wrings her hands. “Your Grace... _ Daenerys _ ...tonight may be our last in this world, and I couldn’t bear it if one of us died tonight and I never told you how I feel about you.” She draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “I love you. I do. I always cared for you, but when I was with my family earlier, waiting for the Army of the Dead...all I could think about was you. I kept thinking about how I wanted to spend tonight with you. Not with Andar, not with my family...with  _ you _ . If I die tonight, then I want my last night to be in your arms.” She sucks in a breath, wondering if  she’s said too much, if she’s only embarrassed herself and alienated Daenerys.

But the dragon queen gives her a soft smile. “I’m very glad, Sansa. Because I want to spend my last night in your arms, as well.”

The breath comes rushing out of Sansa. She stumbles to Daenerys, clutching her hands. “If we survive tonight...I want to be yours. I don’t care how, I only...I choose you. I want to be with  _ you _ .”

Daenerys touches her cheek. “You may feel different in the morning.”

“I won’t.” She presses Daenerys’s hand to her heart. “I swear to you, this is what I want. To be by your side.” She hesitates. “If...you want me, that is.”

“Sansa...how could I not want you?”

Sansa kisses her, and Daenerys kisses back, and nothing has ever felt sweeter. 

  
  



	97. JEYNE XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, full disclosure, y'all know I hate writing battle sequences and suck at it, so the next few chapters borrow HEAVILY from the show. They're gonna be relatively short so I can get in enough POVs and...yeah anyway I hope you like it. Or at least don't hate it.

All around her is the ring of steel on steel, the clash of swords, the screams of men as they fall. She can hear the chittering of wights, too, their unearthly growls as they take down man after man after man.

Through the ever-shifting forest of bodies, she can see the red of Sansa’s hair. She tries to get to her friend, wading through bodies, ducking around swinging swords. “Sansa,” she tries to call, but she’s always just out of reach.

And then she hears Theon’s shout from the opposite direction. Her head whips around, her breath rattling in her chest. 

“Theon?”

He’s in pain, in agony, she has to go to him…

But Sansa doesn’t know how to fight, and she’s lost, she needs Jeyne…

_ But Theon needs me too. _

Caught between the two people dearest to her, she hesitates, and it is in that moment of hesitation that a wight’s blade pierces her belly. She watches in horror as her own blood spills out of her, staining her dress. In the distance, a horn blows.

“Jeyne!”

Theon’s voice, calling to her through the melee as she sinks to her knees, her hands at her belly, stained red with blood--

“Jeyne!”

She pulls herself from her slumber, her eyes leaden. It takes her a long moment to orient herself, to remember that she is in bed with Theon. He’s sitting them both up, touching her face to try and wake her up. 

“Jeyne, love, we have to get up. They’re here.”

“They’re--” The horn blast brings her fully awake.  _ Oh. _ She scrambles out of bed, reaching for her clothes. Theon does the same, moving with urgency. When she’s mostly dressed, she goes to help him with his armor, her fingers surprisingly steady despite the rest of her trembling. 

“I have to go,” he says as soon as she’s finished. “Rickon--”

“I know. I’ll see you up there.”

He kisses her, hard and fierce, and starts to leave.

“Wait!” she calls, remembering something. When he turns, she comes forward, pulling the knife from her garter. “Let me give you a lock of hair. For luck. It worked once before, didn’t it?”

Theon gives her a puzzled look, and then he smiles. “I already have a lock of your hair.” 

“What?”

He reaches into his breastplate, removing a folded white handkerchief. When he opens it, she sees a lock of her hair, wound in a circle and bound with twine. She looks up at him in surprise. “Is that…?”

“From the battle for Winterfell, aye.” He folds it back up, tucking it into his breastplate once more. “I keep it with me always.” 

She could cry. Theon kisses her again.

“I have to go. Save your tears for morning.” 

She watches him go, and wonders if she prays to the Drowned God to spare him, will he listen?

.

The castle is deathly quiet. Even as men scurry all over the keep and into the yard, spilling out into the open plain below, the air is still and quiet. Jeyne and Sansa walk up the stairs together, knees trembling. The braziers along the ramparts flicker, the archers take their places, and the Starks and their wolves watch as the biggest army in the Seven Kingdoms forms up in front of their castle. Jeyne cannot see the beginning of the army, let alone the opposing army...but she can sense them there all the same, lurking in the darkness.

The silence is pierced by a dragon’s cry; she looks up, seeing Daenerys’s beasts winging over them. Seeing them should comfort Jeyne...but somehow, it doesn’t.

When the dragons’ cries and the flapping of their wings have faded, all is silent for a long, terrible time. Jeyne fingers the bow Theon gave her. Over her shoulder she bears obsidian-tipped arrows, just in case. 

Theon and Arya also have bows and arrows, some with wooden heads that will catch flame and send it flying, others with heads of obsidian. They have knives at their hips, and Theon and Rickon both carry swords. That makes Sansa and Catelyn the only two who are unarmed. Jeyne prays they will not need to take up arms. 

The silence stretches on. In the godswood, Jeyne knows, Bran, Jon, Stannis, and a small host of men all await the arrival of the Night King. Will he ever appear? And if he does, how will they see him? 

“It’s so dark,” she whispers into the wind. 

Rickon’s voice is quiet but earnest. “It’s the Long Night.”

Suddenly, light appears at the head of the army. And not just appears; it starts at one end of the vanguard, sweeping across until the entire Dothraki army wields flame.

“What’s happening?” Sansa asks, leaning over the ramparts to see.

“Torches?” Theon suggests.

“Torches can’t light that fast,” Catelyn says with some skepticism.

“It’s their  _ arakhs _ ,” Rickon says excitedly. “They’re on fire!”

“How?”

“The red woman,” Arya whispers. 

With a war cry, the Dothraki ride out, the hooves of their horses thundering across the ground and towards the Army of the Dead. It’s something to see, the sea of flame riding towards the blackness. Behind them, the Unsullied light trebuchets with flame, sending the balls of fire overhead. Jeyne feels her heart leap in her chest, filled with hope at last. 

That hope extinguishes as quickly as the flames. 

Blackness swallows up the Dothraki. The triumphant cries and flaming  _ arakhs _ fade, until all that is left is that same silent, still blackness. 

It’s like that for a long time, just silent and still and black. But they all know better than to trust it. Slowly, Sansa leans back from her place on the rampart, falling in beside Jeyne. Their hands find each other and squeeze.

The darkness moves, surging forward. Jeyne squeezes Sansa’s hand tighter, and someone draws in a sharp breath, but Theon says, “It’s the Dothraki riding back.”

Jeyne squints. She can barely see, but what she can make out is the steady movement of a handful of human horses, not the wild lashing movements of thousands of wights.

“Is that all of them?” Rickon asks. “All that’s left?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Theon says grimly. 

“Gods be good,” Catelyn murmurs. 

The darkness swells and surges, and then the air fills with the growling, chittering sounds of a thousand thousand wights. Jeyne feels the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. 

“They’re coming!” Rickon shouts.

It’s like watching waves crash upon sand, but unlike the ocean, the army of wights does not recede. They clamber onto the men at the front, digging their way with clawed hands towards the castle. Though they are still far away from the ramparts, Jeyne’s breath comes short and hard. The worst part, she thinks, is that they can’t  _ see _ anything. Even the moon and stars are hidden tonight, veiled behind a thick blanket of clouds, and what meager light there is comes from the braziers, the flames sputtering in the wind. Are they holding off the wights? Are they succumbing to them at once?  _ Am I next? _

Jeyne’s vision is filled with a bright, blinding light then. She winces, raising a hand over her face. But the light she sees isn’t coming for her, and after a moment, she lowers her hand, watching.

Daenerys’s dragons soar over the battle, spewing jets of flame over the wights. They fall to the flame easily, their already shriveled skeletons melting into ash. The battle illuminated at last, Jeyne can see the head of the army locked with the wights, the wall of flame cutting off the Army of the Dead; what wights remain on the other side must retreat if they wish to survive.

And yet…

It isn’t enough. 

Storm clouds swirl in from the sky, snow and ice sending the dragons flying away. Instinctively, Jeyne knows that this is no mere coincidence; this is the work of the Night King. 

_ If he can kill dragons and make them flee...what else can he do? _

“My lady,” Theon says to Catelyn with no small amount of urgency. “You should go inside. Somewhere deep in the castle. Bar the doors and do not unbar them until morning.”

Catelyn nods slowly, shakily. “I think you are right. Girls.”

“I’m staying here,” Arya declares.

Catelyn looks at her daughter with an anguished expression. “Arya, please.”

“I can fight. Better than most,” the younger Stark argues. “I’ll be of more use here.”

“Arya,  _ please _ ,” Catelyn begs again. “It’s not safe.”

“And that’s why I have to be here.” She touches her mother’s arm. “I’m a better fighter than Rickon. I need to stay here, to protect him.”

Catelyn glances between her children.

“Let her stay,” Rickon decides at last. “She’s right, she’s a better fighter than me.”

Catelyn embraces both her children, kissing their heads. “I wish you both good fortune,” she says solemnly. “And you, Theon.”

He bows his head. “And you, my lady.”

Catelyn and Sansa start off; Jeyne lingers for a moment, pressing a kiss to Theon’s lips, before scurrying after them. 

She hopes it will not be the last time she sees him.


	98. ASHA V

Asha’s seen many things in her day.

She’s seen men drown and rise again. She’s seen countless battles, on land and sea, in storms and snow. She’s seen the fall of King’s Landing, the rebirth of dragons, and she’s seen herself, the first woman in history, to take the Seastone Chair.

But none of those things hold a candle to seeing the Army of the Dead for the first time. 

At least she can see them now, at least mostly. Before the dragons, they were blind, only able to see a few feet ahead. It had been madness trying to command from all the way in the back. Now she can see, but in some ways, she wishes she couldn’t. The wights make her skin crawl, and she wonders, not for the first time, why she hadn’t simply packed up and sailed back to the Iron Islands.

_ Because you’re a good bloody person, _ she curses. 

Sudden snow and ice drive back the dragons, and with them, the light from the flames. The air becomes thick with ash and snow, and what flame is left is obscured by it. An eery orange glow lights the night sky, and the ever-advancing Army of the Dead. 

The air becomes so thick with ash and snow that even with the fire, Asha can barely see. She hears some of the men around her choking on the tainted air, inhaling too much of the smoke. All of them are squinting through the storm, trying to see.

“We may as well be taking shits back here!” she shouts impatiently, drawing her battle-axe. “Ironborn!”

They shout in recognition.

“Some of you have fire, some of you have dragonglass. That’s all very well. But do you know what’s stronger than any of those?  _ Iron! _ ”

The men scream in approval. 

“We are ironborn, and when the Drowned God takes us, it will be in battle on the sea, not on the mainland fighting these dead men!”

Another shout of approval. 

“Now pick up those weapons and give these fuckers a real fight! What is dead may never die!”

_ “WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!” _

The ironborn charge into the fray, hacking this way and that. All of them will make Asha proud tonight--all of them  _ have _ made her proud by coming here in the first place.

She only hopes they live to be proud, too.


	99. ARYA XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be remiss if I didn't thank Emily for not only reading over the entire Long Night sequence but also for talking me through this fic and calming down my crises. You are the Ann Perkins to my Leslie Knope, texting me every thirty seconds to tell me it's gonna be okay.

Though she can barely see through the haze ahead of her, Arya  _ can _ see that the battle is not going at all well.

The wights are too much, and Rickon has commanded they open the gates. From below, Arya can hear Maege Mormont shouting orders. Her daughters are with her, she knows, even little Lyanna, who had hotly declared that every Bear Islander has the strength of ten mainlanders and she’d be damned if the boy who wasn’t even her husband yet was going to order her inside. Rickon had had the good sense not to argue. 

Arya wonders at his good sense now, seeing the men clamor to get inside the walls of Winterfell. Most of the army is still outside, but they won’t be able to hold their position for much longer. The wights are  _ relentless _ . They feel no pain and fear nothing, and that’s a dangerous combination. They drive the men back, closer and closer to Winterfell. They were prepared for this; they’ve erected trenches around the castle, filled with wooden spikes. All they have to do is light the trenches to ensure that the dead will stay back.

Still. They had hoped to use the trenches later, to hold their ground for a little longer. Long as the battle has been raging, this feels too soon. Arya doesn’t want to think about what that means. 

Among the men running towards the keep, she sees the Hound. There’s a wight closing in behind him; dipping her arrow in the brazier beside her, she aims the way Anguy showed her, letting the arrow fly. It lands in the wight’s head, felling him with one fiery blow. The Hound looks back at it and then up at her; she nods, barely restraining a smile. 

_ I know you hate fire, but it saved your life. _

He has the same thought; snarling, he turns around and hacks the wight with his axe, just for good measure. 

“Protect the gate!” Rickon howls over the clamor, and the men below take up the cry.

_ “PROTECT THE GATE!” _

Soon the armies are pressed as close as they can be to Winterfell, and nearly all of them are behind the trench. 

“Light the trench!” someone calls. 

One of the Northmen takes up two torches, waving them overhead to signal Daenerys. They wait for a beat...and another one...and another one…

...and finally realize that nothing is happening.

“She can’t see us,” Arya realizes. With the winter storm the Night King has created, there’s no way she can see through the squall. “We have to do it.”

“Light the trenches!” Rickon orders.

Others take up the cry, and soon the archers, Arya and Theon included, are firing flaming arrows into the trench.

But the storm is so bad that the flames extinguish before they even land. 

“It’s not working!”

Rickon grips the stone of the ramparts, biting his lip. “There must be something we can do.”

Arya, watching the wights come closer, sees something very strange: the red woman, Melisandre, walking out the gate, calm as you please. The Unsullied surround her, shielding her as she comes to a stop and kneels before the trenches. She holds out her hands, grasping one snowy wooden spike. Even over the storm and the battle, Arya can hear her chanting in High Valyrian, her voice rising up to the sky itself.

Nothing happens, save that more men fall and the wights come closer. Melisandre’s voice grows louder and more desperate, and Arya actually fears for the woman’s life. A wight comes so, so close to killing her, its arm raised and knife at the ready--but suddenly, flame springs up on the spot. It surges through the wooden trenches, incinerating every wight on them and keeping the rest at bay. The men not yet inside the castle pause, chests heaving as they watch, just to make sure. 

They are safe at last; the wall of flames rises high, and the wights stand eerily still, making no advance. Neither, though, do they retreat.

The way lit at last, the dragons emerge from the sea of clouds, fighting the gales to breathe fire over the Army of the Dead. Some of them have the good sense to scatter, but they will never flee. Arya knows that. They have no minds of their own.

The red woman moves back inside the castle--but not before looking up, her eyes finding Arya right away. They gaze at each other for a long moment, and Arya has the unnerving feeling that Melisandre knows something about her that not even she knows. 

.

How much time passes, none of them know. It feels like an hour, but maybe it’s only a few minutes. The wounded men are brought inside to be treated; there are no maesters here, but some of the wives and daughters and servants are bold enough to emerge from their hiding places and tend to their wounds. One such servant tells them that Lady Catelyn and Princess Sansa have gathered with most of the other women and children in the great hall.

“Tell them to barricade the doors and windows,” Rickon instructs. “Have the men help.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Do you think it will come to that?” Arya asks. “Them getting inside?”

Rickon looks at her with wide eyes. “I hope not.”

.

Arya’s eyelids are growing heavy when Nymeria and Shaggydog begin growling. She looks in the direction their noses are pointing, and sees, to her horror, that the wights have found a way through the trench.

One at a time, here and there, a wight will fall face-first onto the fiery trench. Another wight will fall on that one, and another on that one. 

“What are they doing?” Rickon wonders, frowning.

“They’re creating bridges.” Theon nocks an arrow, shooting down the next wight that tries to fall. It doesn’t matter; another one steps forward to take its place. They don’t care, they don’t feel anything, don’t care if they die. They are puppets whose strings are pulled by the White Walkers, and they do as the Night King commands.

“They’re going to get inside,” Theon says, fear creeping into his voice. “Man the walls!” he shouts, louder.

“Man the walls!” the men repeat, surging forward to take up their positions. Archers fire at the first wights to cross over, and the men still in the field form up against them, but Arya knows that such resistance will be feeble against the Army of the Dead.

It only takes moments for the wights to get past the trenches completely. What men are left outside the wall fall quickly, only a few left fighting as the wights press up against the wall.

“They’re against the wall!” someone shouts, the cry echoed all over so that everyone knows. Men surge up the steps and onto the ramparts, bows and blades at the ready.

“It’s not too late to go, you two,” Theon says in a low voice so only Rickon and Arya can hear. “No one would blame you for joining your mother and sister in the great hall.”

Rickon looks at Arya, and she looks at him.

“We’re staying,” Rickon decides, and he and Arya both draw their blades. 

“You don’t have to--”

“Yes I do,” Rickon retorts.

“I’m not leaving my baby brother out here,” Arya declares.

Theon makes a guttural noise, irritated at their headstrong ways, but he draws his own blade and takes his place beside Rickon. 

“Relieve the archers!” Jaime Lannister shouts, taking up a position near Rickon. Brienne is hot on his heels, blood and sweat and ash stuck to her face and hair.

“Your Grace!” she shouts. “Lady Arya!”

“They’re stubborn as bulls,” Theon says with a grudging sort of respect. “They’ll stay and fight. Archers on top!” he orders. The archers move further up to get a better position, and the men from the yard fill the ramparts, swords at the ready. 

Just as they formed a bridge, the wights now form a ladder, standing on top of one another until those that follow are able to climb up and reach the ramparts. Jaime Lannister swings his sword, knocking the first of many back to the ground. Arya, Theon, and Brienne close in around Rickon, Nymeria and Shaggydog doing the same. Tears fill Arya’s eyes, and she doesn’t know if it’s because of the smoke or her own fear.

More wights clamber up to the ramparts, and more behind them, and not even the most vigilant of warriors can keep them all at bay. A handful manage to get all the way onto the ramparts before being cut down. Theon lunges out to cut one in half; another gets too close, but Shaggydog’s jaws close around its wrist, shaking its arm loose from its torso while Nymeria knocks it to the ground and savagely rips its head from its shoulders.

“Good girl,” Arya tells her. 

The first men begin to fall, and as more wights climb over the edge, more men fall. One unfortunate knight is knocked into the yard, taking three wights with him. That, Arya thinks, is the beginning of the end for them. 

There are too many of them before long, each one bolder than the last. When she drives her blade into her first wight, she gasps in surprise, watching it fall before her. It’s the first wight she’s ever killed--and it won’t be the last. She only has a moment to recover before she slashes down another...and another...and another. Even Rickon must use his sword, his childish voice crying out as he cuts down his first men. 

_ But they are not men. Not really. Not anymore. _

“We have to get inside!” she shouts. “We’ll die out here!”

“I agree!” Theon shouts back. 

“I’m not leaving my men!” Rickon declares, but Theon shouts, “If you don’t leave now, you’ll die. I swore to protect you, and that’s what I plan to do!”

“You can still fight, just not here,” Arya pleads. “Not where the fighting’s thickest and the chance of death is surest.”

Rickon hesitates...and then nods. 

They’ve lost Brienne in the melee, but there’s no time to look for her; Arya and Theon stay close to Rickon, cutting down the wights in their path while the wolves defend them from the rear. They manage to get up into one of the archer’s towers--abandoned now--and onto the upper level, where the wights are at least fewer in number. They cut them down with relative ease before Theon jerks his head. 

“In here.”

The two Starks and their wolves follow him inside to a dark corridor, the torchlight low and faded. In here, it’s oddly quiet, the sounds of battle dim and muffled. If they didn’t know any better, they would think they were all alone.

But they do know better, and all of them move slowly and quietly, blades at the ready should they need to use them. Once, Theon starts to turn a corner, but Nymeria blocks his way, her lip raised in a silent growl.  _ No _ , she seems to say,  _ not this way, _ so they go back the way they came and move down another corridor. Once again, it’s Nymeria who seems to know what awaits them; she points her nose at a closed door, resolute. There’s light coming from underneath, and tentatively, Theon turns the handle and pushes it open a crack. Whatever he sees surprises but does not disturb him; quietly, he ushers Rickon and Arya inside, closing the door as quietly as he can once they are all inside.

Standing in front of a roaring fire...is Melisandre.

She looks at them as if she has been expecting them, a small, wry smile upon her face. 

“The King in the North,” she says in her Asshai’i accent. “Princess Arya. Lord Theon.”

“Why are you here all alone?” Arya finds herself asking. “Why aren’t you with the other women in the great hall?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Melisandre says as if it is obvious. “Besides, my dear child, I am not like the other women.”

Arya hardly knows what to make of her. “Why were you waiting for me?”

Melisandre takes a step forward. “Stannis will die tonight. I have seen it in the flames.”

Arya stares at her. “I thought he was supposed to be the prince that was promised.”

“Prophecies are...dangerous things,” the red woman says carefully. “There are many here tonight who fulfill the prophecy, and theirs is the song of ice and fire. But only one person will kill the Night King. And that person...is you.”

“Me?” Arya thinks that surely the red woman is mad. “Did you see that in your flames, too?”

“Yes.” Melisandre is unperturbed. “But that is not all you must do.”

“Oh no?” she asks, starting to feel a little hysterical. Is this even real? Is she still on the ramparts, dreaming?

Melisandre takes another step forward. “Do you know why the Night King is here?”

“He wants to kill all of us,” Rickon asserts.

Her eyes flicker to him. “What did the Three Eyed Raven say about the Night King?”

“He wants to kill him first,” Arya remembers. “Because of what he knows.”

“Did the Three Eyed Raven tell you why the Night King was able to break through the Wall? Did he tell you what happened to nullify the magic that the Children of the Forest used to build the Wall and guard the realms of men?”

Arya and Rickon glance at each other, uncertain.

Melisandre leans forward. “Because he marked the body of Brandon Stark, and wherever that body went, the magic of the Children was lost.”

“Why do you say it like that?” Theon asks, suspicious. “The body?”

Melisandre turns her red eyes to him. “The body is that of Brandon Stark, but the one inside it is the Three Eyed Raven.”

“What are you saying?” Arya asks, unnerved.

Melisandre’s red eyes flicker back to her. “I think you know what I’m saying, princess.”

Arya closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to believe it. She  _ can’t _ believe it. 

“Is Bran…?”

“He’s still alive,” Melisandre says calmly. “You may have seen glimpses of him here and there, when the Three Eyed Raven is not on his guard.” She leans forward again. “So you must catch him when he’s not on his guard.”

Arya nods, shaking. “Is there no other way?”

“What are you talking about?” Rickon asks, his voice high and nervous. 

Melisandre does not look away from Arya. “None.”

Arya wipes her palms on her pants. “Alright.”

“ _ Valar morghulis _ , princess.”

“ _ Valar dohaeris. _ ” She turns to Rickon. “Stay here.”

“What?” he asks, his voice rising even higher. “Where are you going?”

“To kill the Night King,” she says calmly. 

“Arya,” Theon says in a warning voice, but she shakes her head. 

“I have to do this. I...I see it now.”

“You see it?” he repeats incredulously. “You’re terrified out of your wits--”

“My wits have never been sharper.” She goes to the door; Nymeria starts to follow, but she shakes her head. “Stay here, girl.”

“Arya--”

“I’ll be alright.” She smiles at her brother. “What do we say to the God of Death?”

He stares at her, uncertain. “I don’t…”

She steps out through the doorway. “We say, ‘Not today.’”

  
  



	100. SANSA XXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fully bragging here but I saw Florence perform Jenny's Song live and it was a transcendent experience.

Outside, the war is waging, men screaming. Inside, Sansa wishes she could scream.

But that would not be ladylike or very calming. That would make the others start to panic. So instead, when she sees their frightened faces and their tears, she stands up and pastes a smile on her face. 

“Don’t be afraid, we’re safe in here,” she lies. “The battle will be over soon. Shall we sing some songs to pass the time?” 

Most of the women and children stare at her, but from across the room, Tyrion nods at her approvingly. She clears her throat. “Beth, your voice is so lovely, could you sing that one about Jenny of Oldstones? It’s one of my favorites.”

Beth Cassel looks at her with wide eyes, but seeing the others watching her expectantly, she nods tremulously and gets to her feet. Varys helps her onto the table so everyone can see, and after a few squeaky attempts, she begins to sing.

_ “ _ _ High in the halls of the kings who are gone _

_ Jenny would dance with her ghosts _

_ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found _

_ And the ones who had loved her the most.” _

“That was well done,” Catelyn murmurs when Sansa takes her seat beside her.

“Yes.” Jeyne squeezes her hand. “Well done.”

_ “The ones who'd been gone for so very long _

_ She couldn't remember their names _

_ They spun her around on the damp old stones _

_ Spun away all her sorrow and pain.” _

“I’m so afraid,” Sansa whispers. “It sounds so  _ close _ .”

“The battle’s inside the walls now,” Catelyn agrees in a grim tone. 

“Are we winning or losing?” Jeyne asks.

Neither Stark woman wants to answer her.

_ “And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.” _

A tear slips down Sansa’s face. “I’m not ready to die.”

“None of us are, my lady.” Tyrion stands before her, offering his skin of wine. After a moment’s hesitation, Sansa accepts it, taking a hearty swig. She wipes her lips, feeling stronger.

“You’re strong,” Tyrion continues, taking back his wine and dragging a chair towards the three women. “But I suppose you would have to be to survive as much as you have.”

“And now I’m going to die here,” she says sarcastically. 

“Perhaps not,” he says softly. “Perhaps there’s hope for us yet.”

_ “They danced through the day _

_ And into the night through the snow that swept through the hall _

_ From winter to summer then winter again _

_ 'Til the walls did crumble and fall.” _

“You truly believe that?” Catelyn asks with a healthy dose of skepticism. 

“Why not? I used to believe that White Walkers weren’t real and the dragons were all dead, but here we are, in the company of both. Why is it so hard to believe that it will be the dragons that triumph instead of the White Walkers?”

“There are only two dragons,” Catelyn points out. “One has already fallen to the White Walkers.”

Tyrion shrugs, unbothered. “I still believe there is hope for us.”

“I hope you are right,” Sansa murmurs.

_ “And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave _

_ And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave _

_ Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave _

_ High in the halls of the kings who are gone _

_ Jenny would dance with her ghosts _

_ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found _

_ And the ones _

_ Who had loved her the most.” _


	101. JAIME VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE EXCEEDED ONE HUNDRED CHAPTERS BABEY
> 
> I genuinely had no idea how long it would take me to tell this story--I was so sure I'd fizzle out around, like, twenty chapters. AND HERE WE ARE. AND IT'S NOT EVEN OVER.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Minutes. Hours. Days. He’d had a wetnurse once who’d told him that the Long Night lasted a generation, that it was dark at all hours of the day. Is this the second Long Night? One that has lasted for days on end? 

His arms move mechanically, swinging and slashing at wight after wight after wight. 

_ When does it end? Does it ever end? _

None of it feels real. Or it wouldn’t, but his whole body is stiff and sore. His arms ache, his legs throb, and he doesn’t know if it’s sweat or tears streaming down his face. Never, not once in his life has he fought like this. This is different even from Hardhome. There had been some hope then. Now…

He chances a glance at Brienne, who is still beside him, still more beautiful than he can believe. Even now, even covered in blood and sweat and soot. Perhaps she is so beautiful because of it all, because she will stop at nothing, because she’s a fighter, because she’s so full of  _ life _ .

He turns back to the battle at hand, his body screaming in protest as he hacks down another wight. Gods, where did they all come from? 

_ Is this how I die? _ he wonders. It must be. They’re closing in on him, pressing against him, wearing him down until he’s sure to fall.  _ Never thought I’d die defending Winterfell, _ he thinks madly. He could almost laugh, but every breath comes hard now, and he can’t spare any of it on a laugh. 

_ At least I’ll die beside Brienne. At least I’ll die upholding the one vow I haven’t broken: I am the shield that guards the realms of men. _

The darkness presses in around him.


	102. ARYA XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna let you guys know that updates may be more sporadic than I was anticipating--I had to turn in my laptop for repairs and the guy said it would take a few days and he isn't even sure if he can fix it so. Whoopie. I can still post from work but. Sigh.
> 
> Also not to pull a 2007 fanfiction dot net author's note but if you WANT mood music for this chapter, I recommend "The Night King" from the season 8 track; I listened to it over and over while writing the last few chapters, this one in particular. Plus it's just an incredible piece.

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Her feet know the way to the godswood. She lets them carry her while she plans. She must be calm. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Fear will make her misstep...and on this night, of all nights, she _cannot_ misstep.

Sweat trickles down into her eyes; she wipes her forehead, ignoring the sting of an open wound. Time enough for that later. 

The White Walkers stand at the far end of the grove, facing the heart tree. They are pale and eerie, snow-white and ethereal. True to Melisandre’s word, Stannis lies dead on the ground, a surprised look on his face and his own sword through his belly.

The Night King, his icy head crowned, stands before the tree--or rather, he stands before Bran, who is sitting in front of the tree. And on the ground between them…

Lies Jon.

She nearly gasps. Jon. Jon, her favorite brother, the one who made Needle for her, the only one who looked like her. _He is still my brother, even if he was never really my brother at all._

She clamps her mouth shut, blinking away tears. She cannot make a sound. Not now. _Not now._

_Swift as a deer. Quiet as shadow. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Raising her knife, she hunches down, her legs carrying her faster than they’ve ever carried her before. She sails past the White Walkers and springs into the air, raising her knife.

The Night King catches her at the last second. He turns around, one hand at her throat, the other at her wrist. His eyes are so blue, bluer than anything she’s ever seen, and they narrow as if to say, _You think you can kill me?_

_Swift as a deer. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

_Not today._

She drops the knife, catching it in her other hand; his blue eyes lower, but before he can react, she pushes the knife into his stomach. 

It looks and sounds like ice cracking on a frozen lake. His whole body shatters into a thousand glassy splinters; he bursts before her very eyes, the grip that kept her suspended in the air vanishing. She lands like a cat, just like the ones Syrio used to make her follow, and looks up to see Bran’s face through the shower of ice. He looks back at her, impassive. 

Behind her, the White Walkers also shatter. The sounds of fighting stop, and a blissful silence blankets Winterfell.

She gets to shaky feet, stumbling towards her brother. “Bran?”

“You killed him,” he says. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” And before he can do anything, she drives her blade into his chest. 

His eyes widen, his lips parting...but then the life leaves him and he stares back at her with glassy, unseeing eyes, his lips stained with blood. She sinks to her knees, weeping. 

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, burying her face in his knees. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it was the only way, I had to.” Her whole body shakes as she cries, the stress of this whole bloody night pouring out of her. Was this what Melisandre saw in her flames? 

A snapped twig makes her whirl around.

“It’s only me,” Beric Dondarrion says gently, raising his hands as if to show her. 

She wipes her eyes, taking in the sight of Jon for the first time. His eyes are glassy like Bran’s, his own lips stained with blood. It makes her sick to her stomach.

Beric kneels beside her. “They were both your brothers?”

She nods. “The red woman…”

“Dead. Gone. However you like to think of it.” At her surprised face, he gives her a small smile. “The Lord of Light and his followers have served their purpose. She was always destined to die here tonight, as soon as the darkness was defeated.”

Her head is spinning. “So why are you still alive?”

He doesn’t answer her. Instead, he looks between her two brothers. “If you could bring one back to life, which would you choose?”

She looks up at him, appalled. “ _What_?”

“If you could bring one of your brothers back to life, which would you choose?” he repeats calmly.

She starts to feel outraged, but then she remembers. “You can’t...you can’t bring someone back...can you? You’re not a priest.”

“It’s worth a try,” he says, still in that maddeningly gentle tone.

She looks between Jon and Bran, her heart pounding. Can she really make this decision? _Should_ she? Beric himself told her all those years ago about what it feels like to come back, how you feel a little bit less. Would they ever forgive her? Would she ever forgive herself?

Jon was always her favorite, the brother she loved the most. He understood her as none of the others did. He was a good man, and the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. And now that the White Walkers are defeated, does he even need to command the Night’s Watch? Could he come home?

But Bran...Bran was stolen away as a young boy. The Three Eyed Raven chose him and groomed him and trained him, and when his defenses were lowered, he took his body and made it his own. He meant to do the same with the Night King, and would have, had she not killed him. He’s dead and gone now, but Bran...perhaps there is still hope for Bran. He could come back, could be his old self.

But is that fair? To bring back someone who hasn’t been themselves since they were a child? Whereas Jon…

She looks between the two, wavering, uncertain. “I...I don’t know…”

“It’s a hard question,” Beric agrees. “But you must choose quickly. We haven’t got much time before it’s too late.”

She doesn’t know what that means, but she has decided she doesn’t want to ask. She looks at Jon, touching his hair. 

Taking a deep breath, she makes her choice.


	103. THEON XXI

The sounds of battle stop all at once. The red woman turns away from her fire, an ecstatic look upon her face.

“It is done,” she murmurs, touching the ruby at her throat. She glides for the door, pulling it open.

“Wait!” Theon hisses, but she swings the door open wide and wanders out. Theon and Rickon exchange dubious looks, but the wolves seem at ease, so they grip their swords and creep out into the corridor. 

It’s eerily quiet, and Theon wonders if Stannis really did kill the Night King after all. Why else would it be this quiet? There’s no sign of the red woman, nor of anyone else.

“We have to go to the godswood,” Rickon declares. “Arya and Bran…”

_ Arya and Bran. _ Theon hefts his sword, nodding. “Let’s go.”

The wolves lead the way, looking calm and unbothered. Surely that’s a good sign.

They don’t encounter another person until they reach the base of the stairs. A few men are feebly stirring, and all around them are fallen wights, still and silent. 

It’s worse outside in the yard; the wights are piled up in mounds, littering the ground with their limbs. Men stagger here and there, bewildered looks on their faces. Maege Mormont and her daughters lean against a wall, even little Lyanna, whose custom-made armor is bloody and dented but intact. 

“Your Grace,” she pants, and Rickon bows deeply.

“My ladies. I’m glad to see you are well.”

“As we are you, Your Grace.”

They wade deeper into the mire, observing the eerie stillness of the night. The smoke and fog begin to clear, the ash and snow settling as the Night King’s winds die down. As the clouds roll back and part, the first light of dawn begins to creep into the sky. By the time they reach the godswood, the heart tree’s leaves are aflame with light.

There are many bodies lying on the ground, most of them with Stannis’s fiery stag emblazoned on their armor. Stannis himself lies among them, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

Something moves beneath the tree, and Theon curses, raising his sword.

“Arya!” Rickon shouts, running forward.

She’s sitting on the ground with Bran, who looks up at Rickon and actually  _ smiles _ . When Rickon flings himself on the ground, his siblings catch him, wrapping their arms around him. 

Theon glances around them. There are two more bodies beside the Starks. One is Beric Dondarrion. The other…

Is Jon. 

He closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. He and Jon had never been close, exactly, but they had grown up together, and Jon was like a brother to him. 

“Did you do it?” Rickon asks Arya. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes. I killed both of them.”

“Both?”

She looks at Bran. “The Night King...and the Three Eyed Raven.”

Bran looks at her with more emotion than he’s shown since he came back. 

“How? Why?”

“He wasn’t good,” Bran says simply. “Do you remember what Old Nan used to say? All crows are liars. But it’s alright now. Arya killed him and saved me.”

“How?” Theon finds himself asking.

He hears a cry behind him, and turning around, he sees Catelyn, Sansa, and Jeyne. The two Stark women run to the rest of their family, but Jeyne throws herself at Theon. Tired as he is, he catches her, burying his face in her neck. She smells like lavender and rosemary and life. He holds her tight against him, his chest heaving with the relief of having her here in his arms. 

“You’re alive,” she whispers, over and over. “You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re  _ alive _ .”


	104. JEYNE XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laptop is still out of commission and will be for the foreseeable future as I do not have $660 to repair it, but we're nearing the end so hopefully it won't be too much of a problem!

The next few days pass in a blur. All of the bodies, wight and human, are collected and burned. They aren’t going to take any chances now, not after that night. The crypts are destroyed from where the Kings of Winter and the Lords of Winterfell had broken free, risen at the Night King’s command. Rickon has the bodies removed and the crypts sealed off.

They’ve lost hundreds of thousands of men. Among them are Jon Snow, Stannis Baratheon, Jorah Mormont, Beric Dondarrion, Mance Rayder, and Ser Andar. It’s a hard thing for Sansa, who had never loved her husband but hadn’t quite hated him. Jeyne knows that her friend had been planning to divorce him once the war was won, but now…it seems cruel, that her desire to end their marriage has been fulfilled in such a way. She hadn’t wanted him  _ dead _ . 

Sansa’s shock and grief at Andar’s passing are nothing, however, compared to Arya’s distress over Jon’s own death. They had always been close, he her favorite sibling and she his, and Jeyne can’t imagine how horrible it must have been for her to find him in the godswood like that. 

For Jeyne’s own part, she cannot help but feel a selfish kind of relief. Theon is alive, Sansa is alive, and as long as Jeyne has the two of them, she is content. She mourns those who are dead, and when Sansa sheds guilty tears over her husband’s passing, Jeyne weeps with her...but secretly, she’s glad that the people she loves most in the world are safe and well.

For days, Winterfell is shrouded in smoke, the smell of burning flesh and bones permeating the walls. It’s enough to make Jeyne sick. She isn’t the only one; Daenerys has had pale cheeks and hollow eyes ever since the battle, and when Maege Mormont lights her nephew’s pyre, Daenerys has to stumble away, retching. 

“He was her first friend and her closest adviser,” Sansa tells Jeyne. “He received a royal pardon and was allowed to come back to Westeros, but he chose to stay with her instead. She exiled him twice, and both times he fought to come back to her. He died protecting her from wights.”

“It sounds as if he loved her,” Jeyne says quietly.

Sansa lowers her eyes. “He did.”

Jorah and Andar had one thing in common: they both loved women who could not love them back. And now they are both dead, and Sansa and Daenerys are too wracked with guilt to think about anything else.

“You could comfort each other,” Jeyne suggests, more than once. “You love each other, and you both lost people dear to you.”

“Would that not be spitting on their memories?” Sansa asks quietly. “I was not a good wife to Andar, and I will not be an even worse widow by taking another into my bed so soon.”

“You did not love him,” Jeyne reminds her. “You were going to divorce him to be with Daenerys.”

“And now we can be together because he is dead,” Sansa says flatly. “What comfort is there in that?”

Jeyne is quiet for a moment. “What will you do?” she asks at last. 

“I don’t know,” Sansa admits. “I am...free, I suppose.” She bites her lip. “I should like to stay here, at least for a little while. Mother will want me to remarry...but so much of that depends on what happens next.”

It’s so hard to think about what happens next when they are still trying to grapple with what has just happened. The enemy is defeated, the war is won...but must they brace themselves for another war? Stannis may be dead, but his heir is still living. Daenerys and Shireen will have it out, no doubt, and the North will get involved. And what happens after that…

Well, no one quite knows. 

The unified army fought beside each other during that second Long Night, fought together as brothers in arms. Will they now be expected to turn on one another? Will Rickon even agree to turn his armies on Daenerys’s when she has sacrificed so much for his home, for his people? Will Daenerys truly expect the North to bend the knee or die when she has fallen in love with its princess?

“What do you think will happen?” Jeyne asks Theon in one of the handful of moments they can steal. There’s little respite for either of them these days. Jeyne cannot even go to him at night when everyone is asleep because Sansa lies awake and troubled until the early hours of dawn, when a mix of Jeyne’s comforting words and sweetsleep finally give her rest. They sit in the godswood now, having slipped away from their duties for a lingering moment together. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “There’s been no word from the south, and with everything the way it’s been, I doubt anyone has sent word to King’s Landing. I can’t imagine it coming to war.”

“I can’t imagine it  _ not _ . Daenerys means to rule the Seven Kingdoms, including the North. Even if she won over Shireen, she’d have the North to contend with, and we her.”

“Rickon’s still young; perhaps he could marry Daenerys.”

That surprises Jeyne. “You think either of them would agree to that?”

He shrugs. “If it makes peace, why not?”

Jeyne considers this. “The Mormonts won’t be happy.”

“They’d be far less happy if Rickon bent the knee to a southron,” he points out. “It’d be the easiest way to give everyone what they want.”

_ Not everyone. _ Daenerys, however guilty she may feel, still has feelings for Sansa; how odd would it be, then, to have her marry Sansa’s brother? 

“If it does come to war,” he continues, “I want you to go to the Iron Islands. Asha will take care of you.”

“What?”

He reaches for her hand, breathing deeply. “Jeyne, I’ve never been more scared in my life than I was that night. I was sure I was going to die. The worst part was I was sure you were going to die, too. When they got inside the walls…” He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you get in danger like that again.”

“I was fine,” she points out, more than a little surprised. 

“But you might not have been.”

“Theon--”

“Jeyne.” He squeezes her hand. “Daenerys has dragons. If it does come to war, if she does attack the North, I can’t risk losing you.”

“She won’t attack the North. Look, I’ll be with Sansa, whatever happens, and she’d never hurt Sansa.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can.” 

“Jeyne--”

“She loves Sansa,” she blurts. “They...love each other. She wouldn’t do anything that could hurt Sansa.”

Theon’s eyes widen in surprise. After a moment, he says, “I didn’t know Sansa was...like that.”

“She is,” Jeyne says, a little defensive. Then, abashed, “I don’t think she’d want me to tell you that.”

He snorts. “She clearly hasn’t spent enough time around my sister.” He rubs his jaw. “I wonder…”

“What?”

It takes him a moment to form the right words. “What if  _ they _ married?”

Jeyne raises her eyebrows. “You think that would work?”

“It might anger some,” he allows, “but Sansa is Rickon’s heir. At least, I think she is; I’m not sure, now that Bran is...Bran again. She’s  _ an _ heir, in any case. If Daenerys married her, she’d have a strong tie to the North without having to take it over. And as neither of them is likely to sire a child on the other, the heir to the North may be named heir to the rest of the realm as well.”

“That’s...good,” she admits. “But there’s still one problem.”

He sighs. “Shireen.”

“Shireen.” The girl is still Stannis’s heir. There’s no way to get around the Baratheon princess. It doesn’t matter if Daenerys and Sansa do marry and unite their kingdoms; as long as Shireen is alive, there’s going to be some kind of war. 

“What a mess,” he says glumly. 

She moves closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “We should run away.”

“We should,” he agrees, stroking her hair. “Go to Essos, become shareholders in Ros’s pleasure house, use the profits to do nothing all day but drink wine and make love.”

They haven’t been intimate since that night, and the thought of being somewhere warm and private where they can do nothing but explore each other…

“If I wasn’t wearing so many damned layers I’d climb on your lap right now.” 

“I’d have more luck navigating the Smoking Sea than your skirts,” he agrees. 

She lifts her head, kissing him. “Mayhap I can feign a headache at dinner tonight. That should give us enough time before Sansa comes to bed.”

“I have a better idea: get Sansa to go to  _ Daenerys’s _ bed so that we have all night. Better yet, let’s run away to Essos so we have the rest of our lives.”

She lowers her eyes, falling quiet.

“Jeyne?”

“I should go,” she says, rising. 

Theon looks upset. “What is it? What did I say?”

“Nothing. You didn’t say anything.” She pastes a smile on her face, one that she knows is empty when her eyes prick with tears. “I’ll see you later. Sansa will be missing me.”

She moves quickly out of the godswood, wiping her eyes. Why, oh  _ why _ did Theon have to become a bloody knight of the kingsguard?


	105. JAIME VIII

He finds Bran at the base of the Broken Tower. 

_ The same place I left him all those years ago. _

He swallows, his feet feeling leaden as he drags them to stand beside the Stark boy. 

“Hello,” he says awkwardly.

Bran looks up at him. “Hello.”

Jaime doesn’t know what to say. What  _ can _ he say?  _ Sorry for trying to kill you when you discovered me fucking my sister? _

“Remember the last time we were here?” Bran looks up at him, an abashed sort of grin on his face. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

Jaime blows out a breath. “You aren’t...angry?”

“What’s the point in anger at something that happened so long ago, when we were different people?” Bran looks back at the tower. “I could be angry. I was, for a while, even if I didn’t know who I was angry with. But so much has changed since then. If you think about it, you pushing me from the tower is what led to all this. We might never have survived the second Long Night if I hadn’t climbed this tower that day.”

“That’s...a strange way to look at things,” Jaime says, bewildered. 

“The truth is stranger than the songs,” Bran hums. 

“Are you going to tell your family? About...that day?”

“No. You’re already in the Night’s Watch, for one thing. And you’ve already lost everything. I don’t want to see you pay.” His eyes flicker past Jaime, and he turns to see Myrcella standing at a distance, waiting patiently to speak with him. 

_ Is Bran going to die? _ he remembers her asking. She had always been kind, his Myrcella, always generous in the affection she gave. He wonders if her affection comes so easily these days. He wonders if it comes easily to him. 

He glances back at Bran. “If you ever did want to speak the truth...I wouldn’t blame you.”

Bran inclines his head. Jaime leaves him, crossing the yard to join his daughter. It still feels strange to think of her as such. For so long, she’d been his niece. Even when the truth became known, he hadn’t dared call her his daughter; he’d tried never to speak of her at all. Is he bold enough to call her his daughter now? Is she too ashamed to call him her father?

“What were you two talking about?” she asks.

“The oddities of life,” he says in a would-be indifferent voice. 

She doesn’t look quite as if she believes him. “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course.” Pleasantly surprised, he falls into step beside her, letting her set the path and the pace. 

“What will you do now that the dead have been defeated?” she asks. “I mean, the Night’s Watch was created to protect men from the White Walkers, and now that there  _ are _ no more White Walkers...is there any point in a Night’s Watch?”

It’s a good question, and one that he truthfully hasn’t thought much about. His mind has been so focused on the war and its aftermath, especially the death of Jon. His friend was too young for such a death, undeserving...but death is indiscriminate. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I suppose there isn’t any.”

She hesitates. “I have heard Queen Daenerys say she means to pardon all the men of the Night’s Watch. That they served their sentences over again by fighting in this war.”

This surprises Jaime. “I do not think that it is up to her, sweetling.”

“King Rickon would agree to the pardon,” she points out. “And I don’t think anyone would argue against it. Everyone who fought those creatures deserves to start over, live a life unencumbered by their past crimes.”

Jaime slows to a stop, looking his daughter fully in the face. Her affections still come easily, he sees. “She may pardon all men in the Night’s Watch,” he allows. “But I killed her father. That is not something she’ll forgive lightly. Even if she did pardon me, she would never rest easy if I returned south.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” she argues. “She is a most gracious queen.”

“Would you be able to forgive someone for killing your parent?”

A shadow flickers across her face. “Yes. If they did it for the right reasons.”

That strikes him as odd. “Myrcella…”

She hesitates again. “If I tell you something...will you promise not to hate me?”

_ That _ takes him aback. “I could never hate you, sweetling.”

“Never?” she asks sharply. 

“I swear it.”

She glances around them and then takes a step closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Tommen lives.”

He starts. “What?”

“Mother didn’t kill him, he...he escaped. He doesn’t want anyone to know. He’s in Dorne, studying to be a septon.”

Jaime runs a hand through his hair, as if pushing his hair from his forehead will help him grasp this any better.  _ Tommen is alive _ . 

“You can’t tell anyone,” she says quickly. “Not even Uncle Tyrion.”

“I...I won’t,” be promises faintly.  _ Tommen is alive. _

She bites her lip. “Perhaps...it would do you both good. To see each other again.”

“Perhaps,” he allows.  _ Tommen is alive. _

She touches his arm. “You have much left to live for...Father.”

His heart aches for leaping. “Myrcella—“

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” she says earnestly. “Come to Dorne. Trystane will welcome you, because it pleases me and he would do anything to make me happy. We can be together as father and daughter, the way we never got to before. You can see Tommen, and you’d be close to King’s Landing, so you could visit Uncle Tyrion whenever you wanted. And if the gods are good, you can be there for your grandchildren.” She flushes with embarrassment, as if she may have said too much. 

But to Jaime, she has said everything he could want to hear. He grasps her hands, allowing himself to look at her fully, with all the love and affection Cersei never let him give their children. There is no one to hide from anymore, no secrets to keep. She is his daughter and he is her father and everyone knows it. 

“I should like that very much.”


	106. ARYA XXI

Gendry doesn’t wake until dawn, when the sounds of the castle and the sun’s first light creep into the soft stillness of her room. 

She’s been awake for a while now, watching him. He sleeps so peacefully. How many feather beds has he chanced to lie upon? 

She has to admit, it stirs something inside her to watch him wake up, his blue eyes fluttering and jaw twitching. 

_ He has a pure heart. He deserves better than me. _

“What is it?” he mumbles, his hand running over his face. “Why’re you staring?”

“I just like looking at you.”

He snorts, but there’s a self-conscious flush on his cheeks. “Right.” He glances out the window, cursing under his breath. “I should go.”

Her heart aches at that. She knows he should; even if a bastard knighted by a band of outlaws was ever good enough for the likes of a princess in the north, he shouldn’t be in her bed. They could both get into trouble, but him most of all. 

He gets out of bed, cursing at the cold and rooting around for his clothes. She watches him, head propped on her hand, and then says something before she can stop herself. 

“I wish you could stay.”

He looks over his shoulder at her, and the joy in his face nearly breaks her heart. “Really?”

She nods. “Yeah. You’re…I feel better, when you’re around.”

He sits on the bed, leaning over to push the hair from her face. “I wish I could be around more.” 

She does too. It’s easy to forget everything when she’s with Gendry. It’s easy to forget about Jon and Bran and the choice she made. 

“Hey,” he says, and she knows that her face must show what she’s thinking. “There was no right choice. There was no wrong choice, either. You could only bring back one of your brothers.”

“I know.” She does. Everyone has told her so, and she knows that they’re right. But Jon is dead because she chose Bran over him, and she’ll never forgive herself that. 

“I didn’t know Jon that well,” he continues. “But I do know that he was a good man. He’d want Bran to take his place, if he had any say in it.”

She knows that, too. Jon was so selfless; he’d give his life for Bran’s in a heartbeat. He  _ did  _ give his life; he’d fallen to the Night King in trying to protect his little brother. It doesn’t make her feel any less guilty. 

Gendry strokes her hair. “Come find me in the forge later. We can spar.”

“I’ll knock you in the dust.”

He grins. “I know you will.” He kisses her before shrugging into the rest of his clothes and stealing out of her room. Arya rolls onto her back, staring at the canopy. The bed is painfully empty now. She misses Gendry. She hasn’t had the heart to ask him where he’ll go now. The Brotherhood has all but fallen apart, and they were the only family he’d had. Will he go back to the Riverlands? Could she convince him to stay here at Winterfell with her?

_ You wouldn’t be my family. You’d be m’lady.  _

Irritated at the ache in her chest, she gets up, finding clothes and shrugging into them. She doesn’t have anywhere she wants to go or anything she wants to do, but she knows that if she doesn’t keep herself occupied, the ache in her chest will consume her. 

She leaves her room, considering going down to the hall to eat something...so she’s surprised when her feet carry her to Bran’s room. 

She’s barely talked to her brother since that night, unable to look at him without remembering that it was her blade that killed him. 

_ Killed him, yes, and set him free, and then I brought him back to life.  _

She raises her hand and knocks. 

There’s a pause before he calls, “Come in.”

She does, slipping nervously into the room. He’s still in bed, rubbing his eyes. 

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes. But it’s alright.” He gives her a bleary smile. “What is it?”

“I...I don’t know,” she admits, hovering.

He pats the bed. “Come talk to me.”

She sits on the edge of the bed. It feels strange to be in here. She hasn’t been since he’d fallen from the tower and into a sleep from which they’d feared he’d never awaken. And now here he is, brought back from the dead a second time. 

“You won’t look at me anymore,” he says bluntly. “Or talk to me.”

“I don’t know how,” she admits. “I... _ killed _ you.”

“You killed the Three Eyed Raven. You saved me,” he corrects. “And when given a choice, you chose to bring me back.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “You didn’t deserve the things that happened to you, Bran. You truly didn’t.”

“No. But they happened all the same.” He touches her knee. “I’m alright now, Arya.”

The tears can’t seem to stop flowing. “But  _ years _ of your life were taken away, you haven’t been truly  _ free _ since you fell from the tower, and I wonder if...if I really did the right thing, if you even wanted to come back, if—“

“If it should’ve been Jon instead of me.”

She buries her face in her hands, sobbing. 

Bran reaches forward, touching her arm; she falls into his lap, crying. 

“I wonder the same thing,” he admits. “I don’t know who I am anymore; the last few years haven’t been mine. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to find myself. Sometimes I think Jon should be in my place.”

“He would’ve wanted me to choose you, if he could’ve,” she says through her tears. “He died to defend you, he would’ve been heartbroken if I’d brought him back.”

“He was a good brother. A good man.” Bran is quiet for a moment, scratching her head. “So many people died to protect me. And now...I’m not sure what I did to deserve it. People believed I was destined for something greater.” A note of bitterness creeps into his voice. “All I was was a vessel for the Three Eyed Raven to control, to get him away from his hiding place. Do you know...I think he meant to warg into the Night King?”

She looks up sharply. “ _ What _ ?”

“It’s all a bit hazy,” he admits. “But in that moment before you attacked...something wasn’t right. It felt...like he was about to jump. I can’t explain it. He shut me out completely.” 

“Why would he want to do that? Warg into the Night King?” she wants to know. 

Bran shrugs. “Why not? He’d be able to rule the world, as long as no one killed him.”

“Who  _ was _ he? The Three Eyed Raven?”

“In life, he was Brynden Rivers, bastard son of Aegon IV.”

“Aegon...the Fourth?” She furrows her brow. “But that would make him...what, a hundred years old?”

“One hundred and thirty when he died.”

She stares at him. “ _ How? _ ”

“Becoming the Three Eyed Raven...it changes you. He became attached to a heart tree, and his human body needed very little sustenance. As long as he had his greensight and the heart trees, he could survive.” He sighs. “But he was still aging, and his human body wouldn’t last forever. So he found a new host.”

“I’d kill him again if I could,” she says fiercely. 

“The White Walkers killed his human body,” Bran says, a faraway look in his eyes. “When the Night King marked me, I thought...I don’t know. I thought he wanted to kill the Three Eyed Raven because we knew the truth about him. But now I wonder if maybe  _ he _ the knew the truth about Brynden Rivers. That he would try to warg into the Night King, and that’s why he was determined to kill him.”

Arya considers this. “I still don’t understand why this Brynden Rivers wanted to be the Night King. I mean, yes, he’d rule the world, but at what cost?”

“There wasn’t much left of Brynden Rivers by that time. He’s like the Night King in that respect; both of them were changed into something else, and all that was left of their human selves had grown bitter and corrupted. Brynden Rivers killed Aenys Blackfyre because he thought he was protecting the realm, but Aegon V sentenced him to the Wall for his crime. He was angry about it for the rest of his life, even after becoming Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I think that anger at Aegon and his council festered into anger at the whole of mankind. Being the Night King meant he could kill every man he saw, and so kill Aegon a thousand times over again.”

“He sounds awful.”

“He wasn’t always.” Bran looks thoughtful. “He chose me when I was vulnerable. I lost my legs and I hated myself. And then all my family disappearing until it was only me and Rickon...I wanted to feel special. Chosen. I wonder if that’s what happened to him. If he felt bitter and abandoned at the Wall, and something called to him. Something or someone reached out and made him feel chosen.”

“You think there was another Three Eyed Raven before him?”

“Maybe. I don’t really know. But I think something drew him to this life, and I think it wasn’t at all what he expected.”

Arya wonders at that. Have there always been Three Eyed Ravens, selecting those they deem vulnerable enough to trick into taking their place? Has Bran broken the chain?

“Can you still...see things?”

“Not really. I think I’ve always had greensight, or something like it, but I can’t just roll my eyes and put myself anywhere I want anymore. Maybe I can and I’m just afraid to try, lest I get lost again.”

She can understand that. “I’m glad you’re back, little brother.”

“So am I.” He smiles at her, and then looks a little sheepish. “I...know. About you and Gendry.”

She flushes. “Oh.”

“I like him,” he hastens to assure her. “I mean, we’ve never spoken, but from what I know of him...he’s a good man. Loyal. Brave. He obviously cares for you...and I think I’m right in saying you care for him.”

“I do,” she admits. “He makes me feel...not  _ happy _ , exactly, not with everything that’s just happened, but...I don’t know. He makes me forget that I’m  _ un _ happy, if that makes sense.”

“It does.” He hesitates. “Do you know why Father died?”

That startles Arya. “Because the Lannisters are monsters.”

“Yes, but do you know why they suspected him to be their enemy in the first place?”

Well...no, she doesn’t. Truthfully, she’s never thought much about it beyond the fact that Cersei and Joffrey were both power-hungry. 

“Father discovered that Robert was not the father of Cersei’s children. He discovered this because he met Robert’s bastards, all of whom looked like Robert.” Bran gives her a meaningful look. “All of them had Robert’s black hair and blue eyes.”

Black hair and blue eyes…

Realization slams into her like a winter wave upon the sand. Her mouth falls open. “Gendry...is Robert’s bastard?”

“He is. One of many.”

So  _ that’s _ why the Goldcloaks were after him. The Lannisters must have learned about Gendry’s existence. They must have been spying on her father when he spoke to Gendry at the forge. “How did Father know?”

“Littlefinger told him to go there. It was one of the last things Jon Arryn did before he died.”

“So Jon Arryn knew?” she asks, the cogs turning. 

“He suspected. He met several of Robert’s bastards and noticed how different they looked from Cersei’s children. He found a record of all the unions between House Baratheon and House Lannister. Every single one yielded children black of hair...not gold.”

Arya touches her head, feeling a little overwhelmed at all the new information. “But Aunt Lysa killed her husband, not the Lannisters.”

“Littlefinger wanted it to look like the Lannisters,” Bran says patiently. “All that time, he’d been waiting to steal Mother from Father. When Jon Arryn began to discover the truth, Littlefinger had Aunt Lysa poison him. He made sure to help Father uncover the truth, so that Father would suspect the Lannisters and drive a rift between the North and the crown. He knew the truth about the man who tried to kill me, but he lied to make suspicion fall on Tyrion Lannister. He knew Mother would take matters into her own hands, and he was right; she abducted Tyrion, making things worse between our houses. Then he promised he would help Father, and when the time came, he betrayed him to Cersei. He knew that Father would either be sent to the Wall or be killed, and once again, he was right.”

Arya can hardly believe all of this. She’d known that Littlefinger had gone to great lengths to hide his treachery, that he was the one who encouraged Aunt Lysa to poison her own husband...but she’d never realized  _ why _ . Not until now.

“Well, his plan didn’t work very well,” she says at last. “He never did steal Mother.”

“No. He did kill Father, though.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “I miss him.”

“I do too.” He looks sad. “How different do you think everything would be if he’d lived? Even if he’d been sent to the Wall, Robb might never have declared war on the Lannisters; he may never have been made King in the North.”

“Speaking of.” Arya glances at her brother. “You’re the oldest boy. We all thought you were dead when we named Rickon king.”

“I don’t want to be King in the North,” Bran says flatly. “I truly don’t. Rickon deserves it. I wouldn’t even know where to start. And I’ve already taken one brother’s place; I wouldn’t feel right, taking another’s.”

She swallows. “So...what will you do?”

“I think I’ll become a maester.”

Her first reaction is surprise, but when she thinks about it, it makes sense. Bran is so full of knowledge, and where could he put that to better use than the Citadel? And it has the added benefit of ensuring he cannot inherit the crown. Not that he would, but if anyone was discontent with Rickon’s reign, they could use Bran as the figurehead of their rebellion. If Bran is a maester, they won’t be able to argue for him being king. 

“I’d want to come back here, if I could,” he adds. “Maester Luwin won’t be around forever, and I could, I don’t know, act as an adviser to Rickon. If he wants me.”

“Of course he wants you. That would be wonderful, Bran.”

“You’ll have to come and visit whenever you can.”

She gives him a puzzled look. “What do you mean, visit? Is this....something you saw?”

“Arya, you don’t need a third eye to see that you and Gendry are perfect for each other.”

“But he’s…”  _ King Robert’s son. _

She leaps to her feet. “I have to go.”

“Good.”

For the first time in a long time, Arya really, truly smiles.

.

She finds Gendry in the forge. He’s not working on anything, which she supposes makes sense; there are no more weapons to build, no war for which they need prepare. Instead, he seems to be waiting for her. He smiles when he sees her, hopping off the table. Her throat is dry, and she swallows, trying to find the words...and then he reaches for something beside him and her throat goes dry all over again. 

It’s a sword, that much she can say. It’s carefully wrapped with silk and leather, the way a sword ought to be when it’s gifted to someone. 

“I made you something,” he says, looking a little abashed and a little pleased with himself. He holds the sheath, presenting her with the hilt. It’s black cord with a bronze crossguard, and carved into the head is a wolf’s face. When she pulls the hilt, the blade slides out with a hiss. 

She gasps.

Because the blade is  _ exactly _ like Needle. It’s the same shape, the same weight in her hand. But no, not quite—she was still small when she last held Needle, and this blade fits her perfectly. Needle would be too small by now. 

“I adjusted the size,” Gendry says, looking nervous. “So it would fit you. Now. D’you...d’you like it?”

“I  _ love _ it,” she breathes. 

He flushed, pleased with himself. “Oh, well, good.”

She twirls it in her hand, marveling at the way the steel feels moving through the air. She’s had practice swords and real swords, she’s wielded dragonglass...but nothing compares to her Needle. 

She lowers the sword, looking up at him. “I need to tell you something.”

“Alright,” he says, looking wary. 

She takes a deep breath. “Do you know why my father went to see you at the forge?”

He blinks. “Er, no.”

She takes a deep breath. “He went to see you for the same reason Jon Arryn went to see you. Because...he wanted proof that Cersei Lannister’s children were not fathered by King Baratheon.”

“I don’t...understand.”

She takes another deep breath. “They went to see you...because you’re Robert Baratheon’s son.”

He stares at her for a long moment. “I’m...what? How do you know that? How did  _ they _ know that?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. 

His face hardens. “How long have you known?”

“I just found out, I swear,” she hastens to assure him. “Bran told me this morning, right before I came here.”

He wanders away for a moment, hands on his hips as he tries to make sense of it all. She doesn’t blame him; she makes little sense of it, either. 

“You’re sure?” he asks doubtfully. 

“Yes.”

He rubs his jaw. “Well. That’s. That’s something.”

“You’re the son of a king,” she says softly. 

He shakes his head. “I’m still a bastard.”

“So was Orys Baratheon,” she points out. “He was the bastard half-brother of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Orys conquered Storm’s End and married Argella Durrandon, the daughter of the last Storm King, and he became the lord of Storm’s End.”

“Is that what you want for me?” he asks. “To become the lord of Storm’s End?”

“I want...whatever you want.” It’s true; she just wants Gendry to be happy. She’d like to be with him, of course, something she knows could only happen if he was raised to a lordship, but if that isn’t what he wants…

“I need to think about this,” he says at last. “We don’t even know what’s going to happen next. Daenerys might want me dead if she knows I’m the Usurper’s son. Shireen is my cousin, I suppose, but if she acknowledged me…”

“You could have a stronger claim to the throne than her.”

“Yeah.”

It’s a complicated situation, and she doesn’t blame him needing time to think. As Robert’s bastard, he has no claim to the throne, but if Shireen legitimizes him or even acknowledges him, there are those who would move in support of putting Gendry on the throne in his cousin’s place; he is, after all, the healthy son of Robert, and she is the greyscaled daughter of Stannis. On the other hand, Daenerys has no love for the Usurper, and she may fear a similar situation; if she acknowledges Gendry, he becomes another contender for the throne, another enemy to defeat. And Gendry’s right; they don’t even know what’s going to happen next. They don’t know which queen, if either will win. Best to keep it secret until then. 

“Whatever you decide to do,” she says, “I...I want to help. However I can.”

He gives her a soft smile. “Thank you, Arya.”

She hesitates. “But...just say...you are acknowledged, maybe even legitimized. And let’s say that you become lord of Storm’s End. You would need a wife to help you run the place. I mean, the Stormlands are enormous, and no offense, but you don’t know how to run a household, and you’d need someone to help you, and--”

“Arya,” he cuts her off, “why are you babbling about a wife?”

Flustered, she blurts, “Why do you think, stupid?”

His eyes are wide. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Maybe!” she shouts with more venom than she really means.

“I think men are supposed to do the asking.”

“Women can do anything men can do,” she says dismissively. 

He grins. “I guess you’re right. Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to ask me?”

“I already did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“If I didn’t, it was because  _ you _ cut me off.”

“Fine. I won’t cut you off this time.”

Seeing that he’s serious, she takes a deep, steadying breath. “Gendry...will you marry me?”

“Of course I will.” He wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground as he kisses her. He kisses her until she hasn’t any breath left, and then he kisses her face and neck. She buries her smile in his shoulder, feeling ridiculously happy. 


	107. SANSA XXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated, PLEASE READ BEFORE CONTINUING, do not want anyone to get upset or triggered! If you are concerned, reach out to my tumblr (jeynepoole) and I'd be more than happy to walk you through anything.

She’s in the bath when the knock comes at the door. Jeyne gets up to answer, poking her head through the crack so that whoever’s on the other side won’t see a naked Sansa. She exchanges a few words with whoever’s on the other side, and then closes the door, a smug look on her face.

“Who was that?” Sansa asks.

“Missandei.” Jeyne gets back on her knees, urging Sansa to tip her head back so she can rinse her hair. “Daenerys wants to speak with you.”

“She does?”

“Yes. I said you’d go to her once you were dressed.”

Sansa stands up. 

“What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed.”

.

As soon as she’s dressed, her damp hair pulled back into a plait, Sansa heads for Daenerys’s room. Both women had silently agreed to give each other some distance after the battle, still too aggrieved to talk about a future together. But if Daenerys asked for her, perhaps she’s ready to talk about the future.

Sansa certainly is. Her confusing feelings over Andar’s passing have not abated, but she’s starting to realize that dwelling on them isn’t helping her any. She needs to move on, to find something else to occupy her mind. 

Daenerys answers her door almost at once, red bags under her eyes and silver wisps of hair falling from her braid. Her appearance surprises Sansa. She’d known Daenerys was heartbroken after the loss of Ser Jorah, but this seems more than grief. This seems like something else.

“Sansa,” she rasps, stepping back to usher the other woman inside. She closes the door behind her, her movements slow and forced.

“My queen,” Sansa says carefully. “You sent for me?”

“I did.” Daenerys moves to the mantle, sinking into her chair. Sansa takes the seat across from her, watching her curiously. The dragon queen licks her lips, clearing her throat. “I’m...very confused, Sansa.”

“What ails you?”

Daenerys takes a deep breath. “I...am with child.”

Sansa feels as if she’s been submerged in ice cold water, the only sound in her ears the rush of water. Her hand finds the arm of her chair, gripping it with an aching strength. She doesn’t have to hear Daenerys to know what she’s saying.  _ It’s Jon’s child. _

To her surprise, Daenerys sinks onto her knees, taking Sansa’s hands in hers. 

“Do you hate me?” she asks, her red eyes shining.

“Of course not,” Sansa says, even more surprised. “I’m only...I thought you couldn’t have children.”

“I thought so too. The witch who cursed me...I wonder now if it was really a curse.” She rests her forehead on Sansa’s knee. “Or if the power of a curse only lies in those who believe it. I believed I would never have children...but perhaps nothing was wrong with me.”

“Are you...certain?” Sansa asks tentatively. 

“As certain as one can be.” Daenerys looks up at her. “I don’t know what to do, Sansa.”

Sansa slides out of her chair, sinking to the ground before Daenerys. “Do you want this child?”

“I do,” Daenerys says, her voice catching. “I truly do.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Sansa forces a smile. “You’ll have a child, an heir to the Targaryen dynasty. The witch’s curse is lifted--if it ever existed at all.”

“This child, as welcome as it will be, will complicate things.” Daenerys takes a deep breath. “They will be a bastard, first of all, and while I would legitimize them, I know there are others who would oppose such a move. My advisers will tell me not to enter a war with an heir still quickening inside me. And…” Her voice trembles. “Mirri Maz Duur told me that Drogo would be alive again when I bore a living child. She said other things, too, but I can’t help thinking about that one part.”

“There will always be those who oppose you,” Sansa points out. “No matter what you do. And I would imagine that many more would oppose you naming an heir that isn’t your own flesh and blood. Your advisers may advise you as they wish, but if you back down now, what would be the point of coming all this way to claim your birthright? As for the witch, I cannot say I know much about prophecy, but it is as you said: perhaps it was never really a curse. Perhaps the power only lies in those who believe in it.”

Daenerys gives her a small smile. “I somehow knew you’d speak better sense than anyone.”

Sansa cups her cheek. “The dragon does not bow for anyone. And neither will you.” 

_Dragon._ _Targaryen._

_ Jon. _

“What is it?” Daenerys asks, seeing the reassuring look slide off Sansa’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Sansa hesitates. Jon had made her swear she wouldn’t tell anyone. But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? He’s dead, and no one is going to try to put him on the throne. If anything, this helps Daenerys; her child will be a true Targaryen.

She makes her decision. “I have to tell you something. About Jon.”

“What is it?”

She takes a deep breath. “Jon...gods...Jon is not my brother. Not by birth.” She takes another steadying breath. “He is my cousin, the child of my Aunt Lyanna...and her lover, Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Daenerys withdraws her hands. “What?”

“He only recently learned the truth,” Sansa assures her. “After he lay with you. Only a few of us knew--not even my mother and Rickon know the truth. He made us swear we wouldn’t tell anyone. He had no designs on the throne, and he was afraid that if others found out, they would want him to be their king.”

Daenerys’s mind is whirring. “But...how did no one know about this? How did he not know?”

“My father found Lyanna as she was dying in the birthing bed. She knew that Robert would not let the child of Rhaegar and Lyanna live, so she made my father swear to protect him. My father pretended he was his own son, a bastard he’d sired during the war, and no one ever questioned it.” Her throat becomes suddenly thick. “My father was an honorable man who never lied, but he kept this secret to his dying day. He never told anyone, not even my mother, who resented Jon his whole life, or Jon himself. Robert was his best friend and like a brother to him, but he spent the rest of his life hiding Jon from him.” 

Daenerys considers this. “And how did Jon learn the truth?”

“Bran saw it.”

Daenerys nods, her mind miles away. “I see.”

“But...don’t you see?” Sansa presses. “This is a good thing. Your child has two Targaryen parents--the son of the Crown Prince and the daughter of the last Targaryen king. Even if they were conceived outside of marriage, you are the queen, and you have the power to legitimize that child. No one could argue with you.”

“They will. They’ll find a way.” Daenerys bites her lip. “I...I don’t know what to make of this. It’s a good thing, as you say, I only...this changes everything.” She sits back, contemplating. 

“Are you angry with me? For keeping the secret?”

“No,” she says honestly. “I wanted to be, but Jon was your...well, for all purposes, he was your brother, and he made you swear an oath.”

Sansa reaches for her hands. “What are you thinking? Please tell me.”

“I’m thinking...that my advisers will want me to marry. To have other children, now that we know it’s...possible. To secure my line. But if I marry, then my husband will be acknowledged as the king, not me. There’s always a first time for everything, of course, but what man would be content to have a wife with more power than him? What man can I trust?”

Sansa’s heart begins to break at the thought of Daenerys marrying a man. Before she can stop herself, she blurts, “You don’t have to marry a man. You could marry me.”

Daenerys looks surprised but not displeased by the suggestion. “You...still care for me?”

Sansa starts to cry. “Of course I do. How...how could you think otherwise?”

Daenerys shakes her head. “The things you said that night...I was sure you were only afraid and speaking out of that fear. And then your husband died, and...we didn’t speak at all.”

“I was confused. And I felt as if I was the reason Andar had died.”

Daenerys looks at her sharply. “Sansa, you know that isn’t true.”

“I wanted an end to our marriage,” she says softly. “And I got what I wanted.”

Daenerys scoots closer, taking her chin in her hand. “Andar died fighting the Army of the Dead. He didn’t die because you wanted a divorce. It was horrible what happened, don’t get me wrong, but the gods aren’t punishing you. They made you what you are, and to hurt you for making you unable to love men...that would be cruel.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the gods,” Sansa says softly.

“I don’t, but you do...and frankly, after all we’ve been through, I’m more than a little inclined to believe the old gods have some power here.” She touches Sansa’s cheek, stroking her hair. “Do you truly want to marry me?”

“Yes,” Sansa says at once. “You wouldn’t have any children by me, but I would never seek to overpower you the way a man would. I would never try to take your crown or turn the realm against you. All I ask in return is you leave the North a sovereign kingdom ruled by my brother.”

Daenerys’s face clouds over. “Sansa…”

“I am Rickon’s heir,” she says quickly. “If anything should happen to him, I would become Queen in the North, and my...wife, would rule at my side. A marriage would be the easiest way to bring the North into the fold without going to war. And if and when Rickon does have children, we could broker a match between his child and yours. You could have what you want without making us give up what we want.”

Daenerys considers this. “That...may work.”

“It will,” Sansa says, confident. “We’ll make it work.”

Daenerys looks at her, a small smile on her face. “You are truly remarkable, Sansa Stark.”

She bows her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys touches her hair. “I suppose I should speak to your mother and brother.”

“Let me speak to them first,” Sansa says, her stomach sinking. “I...don’t know how they’ll feel. Especially my mother.” She has a pretty good idea, though. 

“Perhaps it’s just as well; I need to have my throne secured before I can offer you a place at its side. Princess Myrcella has offered to arrange a meeting with Shireen Baratheon, where I hope we can reach some kind of agreement.”

“Let me go with you,” Sansa begs. 

“I would be heartbroken if you did not.” Daenerys hesitates, and then leans forward to kiss her. Sansa kisses back, her fingers tangling in Daenerys’s silver hair. Warmth floods her, desire stirring low in her belly. She feels alive again, for the first time since the Long Night. When Daenerys pushes her gently to her back, Sansa goes willingly, her heart pounding in her chest. Daenerys straddles her hips, making quick work of the laces of Sansa’s gown. They push and shove at each other’s skirts, hands searching for that warm, wet place. They have to shift to get a better angle, but once they’ve touched each other, the air fills with heavy breathing and soft moans. Unpracticed as she is, Sansa makes Daenerys come in minutes, her own climax urged on at the fluttering, tightening sensation of the other woman around her fingers.

“I love you,” Daenerys murmurs even as Sansa begins to flutter. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Sansa comes with a sharp cry. When the last wave of her pleasure has ebbed, she melts against Daenerys’s body, boneless and sated. Her voice little more than a whisper, she says, “I love you, too.”

 


	108. ARYA XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presumably I am getting a Chromebook tomorrow, but UPS has hurt me before, so fingers crossed I can write and finish this fic soon! 
> 
> Also I know y'all are gonna have complicated feelings about this chapter and that's okay, I also have complicated feelings! But I don't think it's a black and white thing and also as a friend of Theon (which is thundersnowstorm's term for lesbians in Westeros, iconic) I feel like it's not doing my due diligence if I don't address how hard it is to come out to your family so um. Anyway. Enjoy? I guess?

Really, they’ve gotten rather careless. 

Before, they had tried to limit their time together to late nights in her room, hiding their trysts under the cover of darkness.

Now…

They’re in his little room in the forge, his cot creaking with every rock of their hips. He still shushes her whenever she sighs too loudly, hissing that someone will hear and then they’ll both be in trouble, but she only has to roll him onto his back and swivel her hips to make him forget all about being heard. 

“Arya?”

She freezes. No. Surely that can’t be…

“Arya, are you in there?”

“Shit,” she whispers, climbing off Gendry and reaching for her clothes. He stuffs himself inside his pants, trembling fingers doing up the laces. Thankfully, neither of them had shed much clothing, so it only takes Arya a moment to finish dressing and stumble out of his room. “I’m here!” she calls, voice far too high.

Sansa blinks at her. “What were you…” Her eyes sweep over her sister and an affronted expression passes over her face. “Arya!”

“What do you want?” Arya asks rudely. She closes the door behind her so that Gendry will be spared one of Sansa’s withering glances.

But there is no withering glance; if anything, Sansa looks pale. “I need to speak to you. Alone.”

It’s serious, whatever it is, so Arya nods. “Alright. Let’s go to the godswood.” She doesn’t tell Gendry she’s going; he’ll figure it out, and she’s sure he’d rather her spare him the embarrassment. Instead, she walks with her sister to the godswood, wondering what on earth could have Sansa so nervous.

The wolves join them, silently appearing from wherever they’ve been lurking. They’re all a little worse for wear after the battle, but they are alive. 

_ Poor Ghost, _ Arya thinks, touching the white wolf’s back as he passes her. He howls every night, calling for Jon. He’s not stupid; she knows that he knows what happened to Jon. It doesn’t stop him from calling out all the same.

Once they are before the tree, Arya and Sansa sit against the wolves, the beasts curled around them in a protective cocoon. Nymeria is warm and soft, making Arya feel as if she is beside a fire rather than sitting in the middle of snowy woods.

“So? What’s going on?”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “There are two things.”

“Alright.”

“First...Daenerys is with child.”

_ That _ surprises Arya. “She’s  _ what _ ?”

“She’s carrying Jon’s child,” Sansa says softly. 

Jon’s child. A Targaryen...and a Stark, at least in some small part. “Are you...upset?”

“I was at first,” Sansa admits. “But, she wants a child, and she needs an heir, and this child will be a true Targaryen.” 

“Does she know? About Jon?”

“I told her,” Sansa admits. “I thought she deserved to know...and I didn’t think he’d mind.”

“He wouldn’t,” Arya agrees. “He’d want you to tell her. He never wanted a bastard child, but...perhaps that could be overlooked.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Which brings me to the second thing.”

“Alright.”

“We...are getting married. Daenerys and I.”

Arya tackles her sister, ignoring her yelps as they roll in the snow. “Good! It’s about time! All that mooning was making me sick.”

Sansa bats her off, flushed and grinning nonetheless. “You approve, then?”

“Approve? I would’ve been angry if you hadn’t.” 

Sansa’s smile fades. “I need your help. I need to tell Mother and Rickon.”

Arya sucks in a breath.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Sansa echoes wryly. 

Arya sits back, considering. “Rickon will be alright with it, I imagine. But Mother…” She doesn’t have to say it. They both know their mother, and they both have a pretty good idea of how she’ll respond to her eldest daughter falling in love with another woman. 

“She’ll hate me,” Sansa whispers.

“She could never hate you.”

“No?” Sansa doesn’t believe it, and if she’s being honest, Arya doesn’t know if she believes it either. Their mother, as much as she loves them, has her biases. Look how she had treated Jon.  True, he hadn’t been her son, but he had been her husband’s son, brother to her own children, and little more than a child himself when he finally left Winterfell. How will she treat Sansa once she learns the truth? Will she even speak to her? Will she try to turn Rickon against her? Arya simply cannot see her mother accepting it and moving on. 

But that being said, she does love Sansa. She’s lost Robb, and Bran, for a time, and Sansa did her duty and married on her mother’s request once before. And such a marriage would be good for the realm, ensuring peace between the North and the six kingdoms. Perhaps she would be more amenable than her daughters think.

“Either way, I’ll need to tell her,” Sansa continues, settling back against Grey Wind. He rests his head in her lap, letting out a low whine until she scratches him behind the ears. “And I’ll need your help. She may be more inclined to listen if you support it.”

“Mother never listens to me,” Arya points out, but the cogs of her mind are turning. “You should tell Rickon and Bran, first. Rickon needs to be convinced before you speak to Mother. And once you’ve done that, once we’ve both done that, I mean, we’ll sit down with Mother as a family and talk about it.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s one thing you have to do for me first.”

Sansa looks wary. “Go on.”

Arya takes a deep breath. “Bran told me...that Gendry is Robert Baratheon’s son. I want you to speak to Daenerys about legitimizing him and making him lord of Storm’s End.”

Sansa’s eyes sparkle. “Truly?”

“Yes.” She ducks her head. “I asked him to marry me.”

Sansa lets out a squeal that makes Grey Wind’s ears flatten in irritation. She crawls out to hug her sister. “Arya, I’m so happy for you! Of course I’ll speak to Daenerys. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to.” She pulls back, looking at her sister. “We should lead with that. That you’re marrying a Baratheon of Storm’s End. That will make Mother happy. Oh, Arya, I’m so happy! If you’re at Storm’s End and I’m at King’s Landing, we’ll be able to see each other all the time.”

“It’s what Father always wanted, isn’t it?” Arya asks softly. “For you to become queen, for one of his daughters to marry the son of his truest friend. And now it’s really happening.”

.

Arya fears that Sansa won’t be able to talk to Daenerys about legitimizing Gendry for a while; in a matter of days, the Dragon Queen, the King in the North, and the Queen of the Iron Islands will march to the Riverlands, where they’ll meet with Princess Shireen. Everyone is a little on edge because of it--though the last few weeks have been peaceful, with everyone quietly mourning their loved ones, the truth must be acknowledged: there are two queens and only one throne. 

But Sansa surprises her sister, for the day before they are set to depart, she tells Arya that Daenerys would be more than happy to legitimize Gendry and name him Lord of Storm’s End, provided this business with Shireen goes well. 

So, that very day, the two sisters sit down with Rickon and explain everything--Jon’s true parentage, Daenerys’s child, Sansa’s marriage to her. It’s clearly a lot for the boy to take in, but he does his best, asking questions and trying to understand it all. 

“The marriage is good for the North,” Arya encourages. “It’s the only real way to ensure that Daenerys won’t ask you to bend the knee. You may have to promise one of your children to hers in marriage to maintain that peace, but it’s a small price to pay for keeping your crown without going to war.”

He considers this, and though he says nothing, Arya can tell they’re getting through to him. “Can women marry, though?”

“It’s never been done before,” Sansa admits. “At least not in Westeros. But a woman’s never ruled in her own right before, either, so why shouldn’t two women marry, especially if it benefits the whole realm?”

Rickon looks at his eldest sister with wide eyes. “Did you always love women? Did you ever like men?”

“I don’t think I really did,” she says softly. “I thought I did. I thought I loved Joffrey, but I was only a stupid little girl with a head full of songs. I tried to love Andar, but I never could. Daenerys...Daenerys is the first person I’ve ever really loved like that.”

“I know you didn’t love Andar,” he says, surprising both his sisters. They hadn’t thought he’d paid attention to such things. “I know you didn’t want to marry him. Or anyone. Osha said...she said that in Westeros, women are warriors, just in a different way than men. She said that down here, women wage war and make peace with who they marry. She said you married Andar because it was the only way you could fight for our house. For the North. I thought you were so brave, to leave your home and marry someone you didn’t really know, just for our family. And now...I feel ashamed that I didn’t protect you better.”

“Rickon--”

“We didn’t need the Vale,” he says with an anguished look on his face. “Mother is still Regent, you didn’t need to marry Andar to keep us in their good graces. We weren’t at war anymore, you could’ve married anyone you wanted to--”

“It’s not always about that,” Sansa says gently. “We had no idea what was going to happen. There may have come a day when we needed the Royces, when it was a matter of life or death. Robb never would have had the support of the Riverlands if Mother hadn’t been a Tully, and the Riverlands may not have supported Robert’s Rebellion if Mother and Aunt Lysa hadn’t married Father and Jon Arryn. Your own marriage to Lyanna Mormont may prove invaluable one day.” Sansa’s eyes drift to Arya, a smile on her face. “Arya’s marriage to Gendry Baratheon may also prove invaluable.”

“What?” he asks, swinging his head to look at his other sister. “Who’s Gendry Baratheon?”

“No one,” she says before she can stop herself. “I mean. Gendry is Robert Baratheon’s baseborn son. Daenerys has agreed to legitimize him and make him Lord of Storm’s End, after...after she meets with Shireen.”

“Why do you two keep so many  _ secrets _ ?” he complains. 

“I’m sorry. We’ll be better about it,” Sansa promises. 

Rickon considers her. “Well. If you love Daenerys, I mean, if you’ll be happy with her...then of course I give my blessing. And you,” he adds, looking at Arya. “I want you both to be happy. You’ve always looked after me and taken care of me, and I’d be a horrible brother if I didn’t do the same.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says quietly. “And I hope you mean that, because I don’t think Mother is going to be happy when I tell her the news.”

“Well, she’s going to have to accept it,” he retorts. “I’m your king and I wish--no, I  _ order _ you to marry Daenerys. If you want to. She can’t argue with that.”

“I think she’ll find a way,” Sansa says, but she smiles and hugs her brother just the same. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Rickon.”

“Will you still come visit? Both of you?”

“Dragons couldn’t stop us,” Arya teases. 

.

Sansa arranges for the Starks to have a private dinner that night. With this being the last night before Rickon rides south, Catelyn assumes that her children want to have a quiet dinner together. She’s not wrong, but Arya can’t help feeling a little guilty about the news they are about to spring on her.

They wait until she’s eaten most of her plate before Sansa and Arya exchange a look and nod.

“Mother,” Sansa says, the smallest tremble in her voice, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Alright,” Catelyn says, a little surprised.

Sansa takes a deep breath, hands folded in her lap. Her siblings have gone deathly quiet, staring down at their plates as they wait for her to deliver the news. “Now that the war is over and my husband is...dead...it’s time I marry again, don’t you agree?”

This is clearly not what Catelyn was expecting. “I assumed you would want some time to mourn. Why? Is there someone you had in mind?”

“Yes,” Sansa says carefully. 

Unable to watch her sister struggle like this, Arya blurts, “There’s someone I want to marry, too.”

Catelyn turns wide eyes to her younger daughter. “Truly?”

“Yes. And I think you’ll approve. It’s, erm, Gendry.”

“Gendry? Who is Gendry?”

“He’s...well, he’s Robert Baratheon’s son,” Arya says in a high voice.

Catelyn’s eyes narrow. “Not his trueborn son.”

“No,” Arya allows. “But Queen Daenerys has already agreed to legitimize him and make him Lord of Storm’s End, and that...that would be alright, wouldn’t it? To marry the only male Baratheon and become Lady of Storm’s End?”

Catelyn considers her for a long moment. “I suppose,” she says slowly. “It would be a good match, to be sure.” She pauses. “An excellent match, truth be told. The lord of Storm’s End commands the Stormlands. You would have the whole kingdom at your beck and call.” Her confusion melts into relief. “I think it an excellent match--provided Queen Daenerys is true to her word.”

“Oh, she will be,” Sansa says innocently.

Catelyn turns back to her. “And who is your intended, Sansa? Not another of Robert Baratheon’s sons?”

“No. It’s…” She bites her lip, glancing at Arya. 

“It’s Queen Daenerys,” Rickon says helpfully.

“Rickon!”

“What?”

“Don’t tease,” Catelyn chides.

Sansa’s face falls. “He wasn’t teasing, Mother.”

Catelyn looks between her children. “What’s this, now?”

Arya cannot reach across the table to touch Sansa’s hand, so she settles for pressing her foot to Sansa’s, nodding encouragingly.

Sansa takes a deep breath. “I want--no. I’m  _ going _ to marry Daenerys.”

Catelyn is shocked. “What on  _ earth _ do you mean, you’re going to marry Daenerys? She’s a woman!”

“I know. And I don’t care,” Sansa says defiantly. “I love her, and she loves me, and we’re going to get married once her place on the throne is secure.”

Catelyn sets down her fork. “That’s enough, Sansa. I do not find your jape amusing.”

“It’s not a jape, it’s real!”

The four Stark children look at their mother, watching and waiting. Sensing their gazes, she takes a steadying sip of wine. Her face is devoid of color, her hands shaking. “What makes you think you love this woman?”

“I’m not stupid, I know what love is,” Sansa snaps. “I didn’t love Andar, I wasn’t happy with him. Daenerys makes me happy, and our child--”

“Your  _ child _ ?!”

Sansa purses her lips.

“She’s carrying Jon’s child,” Bran says gently. 

Catelyn’s mouth falls open. “ _ What _ ?!”

“It’s very complicated,” Rickon says in a sympathetic sort of voice. 

Her demeanor turns icy cold. “So your brother broke his vows to lay with a woman long enough to sire a child on her, and now you want to marry her? Do you hear what madness is spewing from your mouths?” She gets to her feet. “Sansa, you’re not well, you need to lie down.”

“I’m perfectly fine, and if I do go lie down, it will be to rest before I ride out with Rickon and Daenerys tomorrow.” She looks at her mother with defiance. “You don’t have to like it, and you don’t have to accept it. Rickon has given his blessing and that’s enough for me.”

Catelyn looks sharply at her youngest, who chooses his words carefully. 

“I think you should stay here, Mother, and rule Winterfell in my absence. If the gods are good, I won’t be gone long.”

Catelyn leaves without a word or even a look. Tears stream down Sansa’s face, and Arya and Rickon both get up to put their arms around her. 

“She’ll come around,” Bran offers, reaching over to rub her arm. 

But Catelyn doesn’t come around. She locks herself in her room until Sansa and Rickon have departed with Daenerys.

“She just needs time,” Arya says when she goes to see off her siblings. 

Sansa’s face is wan. “I know.” 

Arya attempts a smile. “How does it feel, to be the disappointing daughter for once?”

Sansa’s eyes fill with tears, and Arya can see that this was clearly the wrong thing to say. She throws her arms around her sister. “She loves you. She truly does. Just give her time.” She lifts her eyes to where Daenerys is standing to the side, patiently waiting. “Be safe, Sansa.”

“I will.” She pulls back, wiping her eyes. “Take care of Mother and Bran.” She touches Arya’s neck, her lips quirking. “And be a little more subtle with Gendry, won’t you?”

Arya’s hand slaps her neck, color rushing to her cheeks. “Oh. Yes.”

Sansa hugs her one last time before turning to join Daenerys. The two women mount their horses, and then they’re off, heading the greatest army Westeros has ever seen.

_ But how much longer will it be one army? _


	109. MYRCELLA VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, surprise, UPS did NOT deliver my Chromebook, because why would anything go right in my life, so I'm still writing on work computers and my phone in the meantime. We are getting SO close to the end, I don't know what to do with myself!

The journey to the Riverlands goes by quickly; the snows are starting to melt, which is either a sign of spring, or a brief warm period before the winter picks up again. Myrcella prays it means spring. She’s never endured a real winter before, and she’s had quite enough of this one. She’s ready to return to Dorne and bask in the hot sun, seeking solace in the water gardens when it becomes too much. She prays, too, that Daenerys will let her father come to Sunspear with her. They’ve been talking more and more the last few weeks, getting to know one another as they never really had before. He’s funny, she’s surprised to learn. Everyone always praises Tyrion’s wit, and they are right to do so, but she cannot help but find her father witty, too. His is a quieter sense of humor, so quiet you can miss it if you aren’t listening. 

And she does listen; she asks about his youth at Casterly Rock, about his adventures all over the realm. When they’re alone, she asks him about her mother, who Cersei Lannister was before she married Robert Baratheon. She doesn’t dare ask in front of Trystane, or even Tyrion. This is between the two of them.

He accompanies her south to the Riverlands, and no one says anything about it. She likes that; it gives her more time with her father, before...well, whatever it is that’s about to happen.

She can’t see Shireen declaring war, quiet and timid as the girl has always been. But the daughter of a lord and the newly fatherless queen are two different people. Stannis would want her to take the throne. But would he want her to risk her life for it?

“Tell me about Shireen,” Daenerys urges one night when she dines with Trystane and Myrcella. Sansa is beside her, and Rickon and Tyrion have joined them for dinner, and all eyes now turn to Myrcella as the queen addresses her.

“She’s...she was always a sweet girl,” Myrcella tries to offer. “Shy, even. Her father kept her often at Dragonstone and rarely brought her to court. She has greyscale, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Your Grace. I believe her parents did not want to expose her to the cruelties of the world and kept her at home as often as possible. I do not think a life at court suits her. But of course, much has changed since we were children, and I only saw her briefly in King’s Landing.”

“I will be frank, Princess Myrcella; I do not wish to wage a second war,” Daenerys says, sounding weary. “It is my fervent wish that Shireen does not wish to enter another war, either.”

“I cannot see her being so pugnacious,” Myrcella agrees. “With your permission, Your Grace, I would like to speak to her privately before you meet with her. She has always been fond of me, and I hope she will be much more biddable if I have a chance to speak to her first.”

“I should like that too.” Daenerys presses her napkin to her lips. “In fact, I should like as few in attendance as possible when I do meet with her.”

“I think she would appreciate that, Your Grace.”

But what agreement could they possibly come to? Even though Daenerys wants to avoid war and Shireen likely wants to do the same, how can they find an end to the conflict without one losing to the other? There cannot be two queens, not unless Daenerys means to put aside Sansa and marry Shireen in her place.

_ That _ had been surprising, though looking back, it shouldn’t have been. Myrcella herself knows about Sansa’s inclinations, having helped her through her realization herself, and she’d known that the two women were, well,  _ fond _ of each other. But to hear that Daenerys was planning to marry the Stark girl, well, that sort of thing simply doesn’t happen in Westeros. Not outside of Dorne, anyway. 

“Dornish women sometimes enter a sort of...informal marriage,” Trystane had explained to her. “No septon will marry them, of course, but those who still keep the Rhoynish customs have their own ways. Some Dornish women live in defiance of any gods, though, and gather loved ones to bear witness as they declare themselves bonded in marriage.”

Myrcella’s never heard of such a thing, but she supposes it makes sense; the Dornish keep largely to themselves, unwilling for the Westerosi to learn their ways. And truth be told, she’d never really had reason to pay attention to such a thing before. She likes women, but she loves Trystane, and being with him is the only thing that really matters to her. What must it be like, she wonders, to love another woman the way she loves Trystane?

She looks over at Sansa and Daenerys, who share soft, secret smiles. They’ll be happy together, she knows. She’d always thought Sansa would make Joffrey a good queen; now, she’ll make Daenerys an even better one.

.

The two queens are to convene at the Inn at the Crossroads. Myrcella remembers coming here years ago, when Arya had gone missing after her wolf attacked Joffrey. Her mother had had Sansa’s wolf for that, Lady. 

Now, Sansa comes with another wolf; Grey Wind, her brother Robb’s wolf. He’s bigger than Lady was, and will not be so easily felled, she’s sure. 

When they are only a half day’s ride from the inn, Daenerys stops to rest (she’s been doing a lot of that lately. There are rumors that she’s with child--though whose, Myrcella has no idea) while Myrcella rides ahead with her permission. She hopes that by the time Daenerys catches up, she will have struck a deal with Shireen.

The other woman is already at the inn. Her retinue is, anyway; the queen herself is off riding. Ser Davos Seaworth, Stannis’s Hand and loyal servant, sends someone to fetch her back.

“She spends a lot of time to herself these days,” he says, clearing his throat. “Her father’s death...hit her hard.”

“It was a shock to us all,” Myrcella says gently. “He fought nobly, and died facing the Night King.”

Davos nods, but he also seems to have been hit hard by Stannis’s death. “And the red woman, how did she…?”

“Truth be told, I know not. Those who saw her said she walked into the dawn light and fell over, and when they found her, she was an old woman.”

He nods again. “Oh.”

She clears her throat. “How does Queen Selyse?”

Davos’s face contorts with fresh grief. “Not well, my lady. She has not spoken a word since word came from the North. She sits in her chamber and stares at the wall. She will eat if fed and sleep when told, but she’s little more than a shell.”

“I am sorry.”

“As am I, my lady. As am I.”

.

When Shireen returns from her ride, she and Myrcella hole up in her room with a hot kettle of tea and a fresh batch of biscuits. The other woman looks pale and drawn, and Myrcella can only imagine how hard the last few weeks have been for her. She doesn’t ask Shireen how she is doing, because she’s fairly certain she knows the answer. Instead, she asks about King’s Landing and the journey here. 

“The weather was kind,” Shireen says blandly.

Myrcella sets down her cup, reaching forward to grasp Shireen’s hand. “You know you can talk to me, Shireen. We are still friends, are we not?”

Shireen’s eyes grow misty; she looks away, but does not withdraw her hand. “We are. I’m sorry. It’s...been difficult to know who to talk to.” She swallows. “Can I tell you something? In the strictest confidence?”

“Of course, Shireen.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t want to be queen. I truly don’t. I never really wanted it, and I’d foolishly hoped my parents would have a son. But they never could; not a living son, anyway. And now everyone expects me to take up my father’s crown and his cause and to go against the dragon queen, but I don’t want that.”

Myrcella grips her hand tighter. “Truly, Shireen?”

“Truly. I can’t tell anyone else because they’ll...they’ll be disappointed,” she says in a hushed tone. “They all expect me to be a fierce warrior queen, but that isn’t who I am.”

“What  _ do _ you want?”

“I want to be left alone,” Shireen says softly. “Or, not alone, but not...in the middle of everything.” She gives a small laugh. “Truth be told, I want to be a younger son of a smaller house so I could study at the Citadel.”

Myrcella considers this. “When you meet with Daenerys, what do you plan to do?”

“Yield,” Shireen says simply. “With as much dignity as I can. And pray she is merciful.”

“She is,” Myrcella says at once. “She doesn’t want another war. Nobody does.”

Shireen looks relieved. “She won’t...want to punish me or anything like that? For being my father’s daughter?”

“With her father being who he was, she understands better than most that the child does not pay for the sins of the father.”

Shireen squeezes her hand. “Then I look forward to speaking with her.”

.

On the morrow, after everyone has had a good long sleep, an expectant hush falls over the camp. They all know that Daenerys and Shireen are going to meet for the first time, and the outcome of their meeting will determine the fate of the realm.

Both women make an effort to wear their house colors; Daenerys’s dress is square cut and black, ending at her knees to allow her better mobility. A red cape is secured by a silver chain, at the end of which is a three-headed dragon. Her long hair is, as usual, elaborately braided, and atop her head she wears a silver circlet with another three headed dragon. Shireen’s gown is softer; dagged sleeves of black velvet reveal golden silk underneath, and across her breast is sewn a rearing stag. Not her father’s fiery heart, but the old Baratheon sigil. She wears a golden circlet, her black hair wound so intricately around it that it is almost invisible. A wise choice, Myrcella thinks.

The inn clears out, the tables and benches of the hall pushed against the walls. In their place are chairs so old that their leather backs and seats are cracked, the stuffing starting to spill out, but it is the best that the inn can offer. 

Shireen, who is already staying at the inn, awaits them at the hall. At her side is Ser Davos and no one else. Daenerys, on the other hand, has brought Myrcella, Sansa, Rickon, Asha, Tyrion, Varys, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Theon Greyjoy, though the last is more for Rickon than anything. If Shireen is intimidated, she does not show it; instead, she curtsies and offers bread and salt. The inn is not her home, it’s true, but the gesture of goodwill is well received. When they have assured their guest right, Daenerys takes the seat across from Shireen. Rickon and Asha sit across from one another, and Myrcella takes a place between Daenerys and Shireen to complete the circle. The other attendants stand behind their respective king and queens, hands folded as they patiently wait.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Daenerys says once they are all settled. 

“I was pleased to receive your request. Westeros has seen enough of war.”

Daenerys looks relieved. “I couldn’t agree more...which is why I hope to avoid another.”

Shireen clears her throat, sitting on the edge of her seat. “Queen Daenerys, I must be frank with you...I have no intention of keeping my father’s crown.”

Myrcella is the only person in the room who does not seem surprised at the admission; everyone else exchanges sharp looks, eyes wide and lips parted.

“Your Grace,” Ser Davos starts to say, but Shireen holds up a hand, silencing him. 

“My uncle stole the Iron Throne from your family,” Shireen continues. “You have every right to want to take it back, and even if I wanted to be queen, I would be a fool to stand in your way.”

Daenerys glances at Myrcella, the question clear in her eyes:  _ Is this some trick? _ Myrcella offers a small smile, assuring her that no, it is not a trick.

“I admit to some surprise,” Daenerys says, turning back to Shireen. “I do not believe a title was ever relinquished so easily.”

“I know it seems strange,” Shireen admits. “I don’t blame you for your caution. But I swear to you that I have no desire to rule.”

“What do you desire, my lady?” Tyrion asks politely.

Shireen clasps her hands in her lap. “Three things, if you will give me leave to ask them.”

“Ask,” Daenerys urges.

“First, I would ask that the North and the Iron Islands remain sovereign kingdoms in their own right.”

“You need not ask for that, my lady, when I have already agreed to let them remain so,” Daenerys says gently.

Shireen nods. “Very well. I would then ask that my uncle’s bastard, Edric Storm, is legitimized so that the Baratheon name will not die with me.”

Daenerys almost looks amused. “I have already agreed to legitimize one of Robert’s bastards and name him Lord of Storm’s End, but I would be happy to legitimize this Edric Storm as well.”

That surprises Shireen, but she nods again. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“And what is your third wish?”

The younger woman shifts. “I would ask leave to study at the Citadel, and if the maesters see fit, to forge a chain.”

Varys raises a powdered eyebrow. “There has never been a woman maester before.”

“Neither has there been a reigning queen in Westeros,” Daenerys says, her eyes sparkling. “But there is a first time for everything.” She rises, extending her arm. “All this I swear to do, Shireen Baratheon. In exchange, I ask that you relinquish your claim to the throne and name me your queen.”

Shireen rises also, taking Daenerys’s arm. “This I swear to do.”

A sigh of relief blows over the room, everyone exchanging relieved looks. Everyone except Ser Davos, who is stone faced. 

Shireen asks for a knife, which Asha hands her. 

“In the old days, oaths were sealed with blood,” she offers. “I propose we seal our own pact with our own blood, in the hopes that it may be the first and last blood shed between us, and in the hopes that in times of discord, we may see the scars on our hands and be reminded of the oath we swore.”

So the two women cut neat lines across their palms and clasp hands, mingling their blood and ending a war that never began. 

 


	110. SANSA XXV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We officially have an official chapter count! Totally possible I'll change my mind at the last minute and add another one, but for right now, I think 113 is where I'm going to end it. I have a lot of emotions about it.

The bells clang as they make their way into the city. Cheers go up from the smallfolk lining the road, their noises of delight turning into gasps of surprise when Daenerys’s dragons wheel overhead. 

Sansa looks up, smiling. This is the triumphant return Daenerys had always dreamed about, coming to the city her ancestors founded on the back of her dragon. She’s so happy for her wife-to-be, so full of emotion that after all this, after everything, Daenerys is getting what she deserves.

All the lords at the Inn at the Crossroads had been informed of the new reign, and few had voiced opposition. They will formally bend the knee at the coronation, where Daenerys will be acknowledged as Queen of the Six Kingdoms before gods and men. And not long after, she’ll marry Sansa.

She can hardly believe it. It feels like something out of a dream. After all the horror, after everything, she gets to marry the woman she loves. She’ll miss Winterfell, of course, but she’ll be able to visit--and dragons travel faster than horses. Arya will be nearby, too, just across the Stormlands (a ship would be faster, but Sansa will be damned if she travels by sea again), and she’ll be welcome at court always.

The only that’s missing is…

_ Mother. _

She hasn’t heard from her mother since she left, and she knows she’s not going to. Her mother had been so upset at Sansa’s news, and she doubts that time will change it the way Arya had said. 

It doesn’t matter. The rest of her family is happy for her, and she has Daenerys. Jeyne will be with her, too, and Grey Wind.

Shaking the ill thoughts from her head, she smiles at the crowd, waving and catching flowers. This is what she dreamed of when she’d been a girl.  _ The songs aren’t all lies. _

When they reach the castle, Drogon and Rhaegal alight in the pavilion before it, kicking up dirt and stones, but no one seems to mind. Daenerys dismounts from Drogon’s back, joining Shireen on the steps. The whole of the court is gathered, and beyond the gates, the people of King’s Landing watch and wait. 

In a ringing voice, Shireen relinquishes her title, surrendering it to Daenerys. She bends the knee, extending a silver circlet embedded with crystals. It’s a crown that neither woman wears, but its purpose is more ceremonial than anything. Rickon and Asha both place the circlet on Daenerys’s head, a symbol of their support. 

“I give you Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Queen of the Six Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

The cheers thunder so loudly that Sansa is sure the entire Crownlands will hear them. Daenerys beams at her people, and, turning her head, shines her smile on Sansa. She extends her hand; Sansa comes forward to take it. The crowd cheers for that, too, and it makes Sansa so happy that tears fill her eyes.

.

The whole week is spent in celebration and ceremony. Lords and ladies from all over Westeros come to bend the knee and pay homage to their new queen. Daenerys legitimizes both Gendry and Edric Storm, naming Gendry, the elder, as Lord of Storm’s End while granting Edric Storm a holdfast in the Stormlands. The Night’s Watch is abolished, its purpose served, and all the brothers that still remain are granted a pardon. The Wall will still serve as a punishment, but rather than taking the black, men  _ and _ women who are sentenced will merely live beyond the Wall, which, Jaime Lannister points out, is punishment enough. 

Now in her fourth month of pregnancy, Daenerys’s stomach begins to swell and she cannot hide the truth any longer. She speaks openly about her child and its father, a Targaryen hidden and raised as a Stark. She speaks openly, too, about her impending marriage to Sansa Stark, a woman, yes, and a Princess in the North. There are those who speak against it, who cry out that it goes against the Faith of the Seven, but Daenerys does not believe in their gods. The septonry has fallen out of favor since Stannis became king, choosing the Red God instead. With R’hllor’s purpose served and no Faith Militant to enforce the High Septon’s wishes, no one really cares about putting a stop to the marriage.

“There will always be those against it,” Tyrion told them. “People are resistant to change. Acceptance will come with time.”

Sansa remembers her mother and how Arya had urged her to give it time. Will Catelyn’s acceptance come with time?

Arya and Bran write to tell their brother and sister that they are sailing south. After Sansa’s wedding, Arya will have her own at Storm’s End, and Bran will depart for the Citadel with Shireen. They make no mention of Catelyn, and Sansa thinks that’s probably for the best. Let Catelyn stay at Winterfell. 

“I’m sorry she isn’t coming,” Daenerys says when they ready for bed one night. “I know how much you love her.”

“I’m not sorry,” Sansa lies. Well, it’s only a half-lie. “I don’t want her coming if she’s going to judge me. She can stay in Winterfell for all I care.”

“I imagine she’ll be lonely.”

“That’s her own fault.” Sansa can hardly keep the bitterness from her voice. “Anyway, she’ll have Rickon.” 

Daenerys eases into bed. Though still early in the pregnancy, her small frame struggles with the weight of her child. 

Sansa reaches over, flattening her palm against Daenerys’s belly. “Any idea what you’ll name them?”

“I don’t know,” Daenerys admits. “Part of me is afraid to name the baby before it’s born.”

Sands understands that. She’d named her son with Drogo, and he’d died as soon as he was born. “There’s still plenty of time.”

“What did you want to name your children? If you had any?” 

“I wanted to name them after my father and brother Robb,” she says softly. “For a girl...I don’t know. I always liked the name Alayne. Alysanne. Lyanna.”

They lapse into a thoughtful silence. 

“I wonder why he did it,” Daenerys muses. 

“Who?”

“Rhaegar. Took Lyanna and ran away with her.” She turns on her side, facing Sansa. “I had a dream, a long time ago. I saw a man and woman, I think it was Rhaegar and Elia. She was holding a baby, and he said that he was the prince who was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.”

“The song of ice and fire?” Sansa asks, an inexplicable shiver running down her spine. 

“Yes. I don’t know what it means.” Daenerys shifts. “But he said the dragon has three heads, and I wonder...I wonder if that’s why he took Lyanna. Elia couldn’t have anymore children, and maybe he felt...I don’t know. That he needed a third child. He had an Aegon and a Rhaenys...perhaps he wanted a Visenya as well.”

Sansa’s lips curl into a smile. “Well, he didn’t exactly succeed, did he?”

“Oh, I don’t know; Jon was prettier than most women I’ve met.”

The two burst into giggles, tickled by the memory of Jon’s good looks. After a long moment, their giggles fade. 

“Do you miss him?” Daenerys asks softly. 

“Yes and no,” Sansa admits. “He was my brother, whatever his birth, and I will always love him. But we were never close. My mother hated him, and I wanted to please her, so I drove a wedge between us. He left for the Night’s Watch when I was thirteen and I only saw him once after that before he came to Runestone and brought me to you.”

“Families can be...complicated,” Daenerys says, and Sansa knows she’s referring to her own relationship with her brother. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to spend more time together.”

Sansa laces her fingers with Daenerys’s. “Jon is a good name. For a babe.”

Daenerys considers this. “It is. A good name. A strong name. Named for his father, for my nephew, for your brother, for the man who raised your father.” She squeezes Sansa’s hand. “I don’t want to choose names yet. But...it’s a good one.”


	111. THEON XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna spoil anything but...y'all probably saw this coming. This is the chapter that I've been waiting to write, like, ever since I thought about this fic. I've had this chapter in mind for so long and I just. I'm really excited to get here at last.

It doesn’t take him long to see the furtive looks Jeyne keeps shooting his way. Everyone else is absorbed in their meal, so they don’t see Jeyne’s eyes flicker from him to the hall to him again. He glances around in what he hopes is a casual manner before leaning over to tell Brienne he’ll be back. She only nods, her eyes on Jaime Lannister. Her eyes are there a lot these days. He’s a free man now—but Brienne isn’t a free woman. Like Theon, she’s sworn her life to defending Rickon, to take no titles and father (or mother) no children. Looks are all she’ll get. Looks are all any of them will get.

Theon walks out to the hall, slowing his steps and moving into the shadows. Jeyne appears a moment later, wringing her hands. He reaches out for her, but she stands straight and stiff in his arms. 

“What is it?” he murmurs. Though they’ve been in the same places with the same people, they haven’t had much time to themselves. She has her work cut out for her as lady-in-waiting to a future queen, and he’s scarcely less busy with Rickon. He feels a little guilty, truth be told. After Sansa’s wedding, he’ll have to go back north with Rickon. North, while she stays in the south. They’ve done it once before, but it had been agony for him, and now that they’ve done what they’ve done…

It doesn’t matter. They haven’t since that night, and he isn’t about to press her. She thought one or both of them was going to die.  _ If she’d known we’d both live, would she have offered? _

She’s trembling. “Theon, I...I don’t know how to say this.”

“Say it,” he urges. 

She won’t look at him, and that makes him nervous. “I’m...gods. I’m with child, Theon.”

Blood rushes in his ears. He stares down at her. He knows what she’s said, but it’s as if he can’t quite grasp it.  _ With child.  _ Jeyne is with child. 

“Mine?” he asks stupidly.

Her eyes snap up to his, suddenly fierce. “Of course yours. Who else’s would it be?”

Gods he’s an  _ idiot.  _ “I don’t know. I don’t...Jeyne, are you  _ sure _ ?”

“Yes.” The anger smolders into fear. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks a bit more harshly than he’d meant to. It’s only...he can’t possibly understand how  _ she’d _ be sorry. This isn’t her fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s a baby. 

_ A baby. _

He’d never really expected to become a father. He’d entertained the idea in his younger days, but swearing himself to Rickon meant taking an oath that he’d never father a child. Is that why she’s sorry? 

“I didn’t drink moon tea after,” she explains, wringing her hands again. “I didn’t think about it, and after everything that happened, I just...forgot. And you took an oath and  _ I  _ made you dishonor that oath…”

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “Jeyne, you didn’t  _ make _ me do anything. Believe me, I was more than eager.”

She bites her lip. “I know, but...I don’t want you to...feel disgraced or...anything like that. I’m not asking for anything from you. Sansa has promised to take care of us, the child and I, and I’ll never breathe a word about the father, so no one has to find out.”

He sucks in a breath. Oh. Right. “Is that...what you want?”

She blinks up at him. “It’s what I have to do. You took an oath, and if anyone finds out...you’ll be disgraced.”

_ Disgraced. For loving a woman and consummating that love the night we all thought we would die. Is that disgrace?  _

And it isn’t himself he’s worried about. Even if Rickon did dismiss him, he wouldn’t banish Theon or anything like that. He could still serve the Starks, or go to the Iron Islands and serve his sister. But Jeyne is the one who will be ostracized.

_ Would I could disgrace myself of my own choice and marry her. _

_ Marry her. _

“If things were different,” he says slowly. “If I was free to marry you...would you want that?”

“You’re not--”

“But if I was. If we were free to do it...would you want that?”

“Of course,” she says, surprised. 

He nods. “Alright.”

“Theon, what…”

He kisses her, holding her close. Her frame is still slight, but he knows that in a manner of weeks, it will start to thicken. It stirs something inside him, the thought of her carrying his child. 

_ His child. _

“Let me talk to Rickon.”

Her eyes widen in fear. “No, don’t--”

“He’s not an idiot, Jeyne, he’ll figure it out one way or another...but it will be better coming from me.” Tentatively, his hand drifts down to touch her stomach. He won’t feel anything, he knows, but just the thought of a child, his child, growing there...

“Are you hard?” 

“No,” he lies, stepping back. “I’m going to speak to Rickon. Can I find you again tonight?”

“Yes. You know where my room is?”

He nods. Even if he’s never visited, he knows where it is. He always knows where she is, just in case. 

She presses a kiss to his jaw and then returns to dinner.

He closes his eyes, running his hand through his hair. Talking to Rickon isn’t going to be easy, but it will be a damn sight easier than letting Jeyne do this alone.

.

He waits until Rickon retires for the night. He often sits with the young king at the end of the day, talking until they’re both tired. He pretends tonight is no different from any other night, settling down in the chair across from Rickon and scratching Shaggydog behind the ears. 

“He doesn’t like it down here,” Rickon informs him. “He misses the North.”

“Not unlike his master.”

“It’s  _ boring _ here,” Rickon huffs. “There’s nothing to  _ do _ .”

“Queen Daenerys has let you ride her dragons.”

“Yes,” he sighs. “But it’s not the same as being back home. You can’t go riding here, and Shaggydog has to be locked up in here most of the time, and he hates that. I can’t wait to go back home.”

Theon falls silent, wondering how he’s going to bring up his question.

“What’s wrong?” Rickon asks. “You’ve been quiet ever since you saw Jeyne.”

His eyes snap up to look at the king, who gives him a maddening sort of look. 

“I’m not stupid, Theon. I saw you two leave at the same time. You looked upset when you came back.”

He takes a deep breath, rubbing his palms along his legs. “She told me something...surprising.”

“What?”

He can’t bear to meet his king’s eyes. “She’s...carrying my child.” 

Rickon is quiet for so long that Theon finally looks up at him. The king sits in contemplative silence.

“Well,” he says at last. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to marry her and raise our child together,” Theon admits. “But I also don’t want to abandon you.”

Rickon lets out a small snort. “You wouldn’t be abandoning me.” He takes a sip of the honeyed milk they’re so fond of in the south. “Where would you go if you got married?”

“I don’t know.” He truly doesn’t--he hasn’t once thought about it. He feels stupid now for not having thought about it more. 

“I don’t think Jeyne would want to leave Sansa,” Rickon continues. “So you’d probably have to stay in King’s Landing. I suppose you could  _ make _ her move back North, but I don’t think she’d like that.”

Theon stares. “What are you saying?”

Rickon sets down his cup. “Theon, you’re not just my protector, you’re my brother, and I want you to be happy. I don’t care if you break an oath. It was a stupid oath invented by southerners anyway, and they stole it from the Night’s Watch. I know you care about me. And I care about you. Which is why I’m releasing you from your vows and giving you my blessing to marry Jeyne.”

Theon can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “Truly?”

“Of course.” Rickon smiles. “It’s what you both want. All I want is for you to be happy. So go be happy.”

Theon stands up, trying to find the words. 

“ _ Go! _ ” Rickon urges, laughing. 

Theon kisses the top of his head before dashing out the door. 

He finds Jeyne in her room, hugging her pillow and looking at him with an accusing expression. 

“Your child doesn’t like anything I eat.”

“I’m sorry.” He is, truly, but right now he’s too elated to feel much regret. “Can I ask you something?”

“I suppose.” 

He kneels beside the bed, taking her hand. “Will you marry me?”

She frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Rickon released me from my vows.”

She sits up, her eyes wide. “What?”

“I’m a free man,” he says softly. “Jeyne...I want to marry you and raise this child together. I don’t care where we do it—I know you’d never leave Sansa’s side and I’d never ask you to, so I thought we could stay here at court. But if that’s not what you want, we can go somewhere else. Whatever you want.”

Jeyne’s eyes grow wet. “You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you.” 

She looks away, tears streaming down her face. “Oh.”

“Oh?” His heart begins to sink. “Is that...are you upset?”

“No, I’m happy. I’m so happy. I’m  _ indescribably  _ happy.” She wipes her eyes. “I never thought...gods. I never thought I’d be here. I never thought I’d love a man or that he’d love me back. When you found me in Littlefinger’s brothel...I couldn’t imagine ever getting out of that place. And you came that day and said you’d take me away and it...seemed too good to be true.” She lets out a watery laugh. “But it is true. Somehow.”

He reaches up to kiss her cheek, wet and salty from tears. “So is that a yes? You’ll marry me?”

She laughs again. “Of course I’ll marry you.” Her smile softens. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

.

Under a full moon, Theon takes Jeyne to be his wife. There is no godswood in King’s Landing, nor are there any trees in the keep’s gardens—it’s only been a few years since the destruction of the city, and what seeds took root are still saplings. But Asha sailed to the ruins of the Whispers for a weirwood seed, and together, Jeyne and Theon plant it in the garden. It’s still winter, the best time for a weirwood to take root. In a few years, it will be big enough for them to carve a face onto its trunk, making it a true heart tree. That way, Jeyne and Sansa can always keep their gods with them. 

It’s a small ceremony with only a handful of witnesses: Sansa, Asha, Rickon, Ros, and the wolves. Their family, such as it is. Jeyne wears a white gown as all Northern brides do, a crown of white roses atop her dark hair, and when she smiles up at Theon, he swears he doesn’t deserve her. When he drapes his cloak over Jeyne’s shoulders, the black and gold enveloping her slim white frame, an odd sort of pride wells in him. 

“I am his…”

“...I am hers…”

“...and he is mine…”

“...and she is mine…”

“...from this day until the end of my days.”

He kisses her and then gathers her up in his arms, carrying her back to the keep. She buries her face in his neck, dampening his neck with happy tears. It may be, he reflects, the happiest moment of his life. 


	112. SANSA XXVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm crying, I can't believe we are ONE CHAPTER AWAY from the end. Like. What do I even do with myself now?

Arya and Bran arrive on warm sea winds, the first promise of the spring to come. Sansa greets them at the dock, lifting Arya off her feet and smothering Bran’s face with kisses. Rickon comes with her, scarcely less eager to see his siblings. He talks their ears off the whole way back to the keep, glad to have all his siblings together in one place again. 

While he’s busy showing Bran the  _ arakh _ that the Dothraki gave him, Sansa can’t help asking Arya about their mother.

“She locked herself in her room again when we left,” Arya murmurs so that the boys don’t overhear. “She misses you.”

Sansa makes a noise of irritation. “Well, that’s her own fault.”

“It is,” Arya agrees. “I kept telling her she could come with us. I almost thought she would, but…” She shakes her head. “Give her time.”

“I don’t want to give her anything.”

“That’s alright too. She’ll come around. Daenerys’s babe is, in a manner of speaking, her first grandchild, and you know how much she wanted us to have babes.”

Sansa perks up. “Speaking of, Jeyne and Theon are having a baby.”

“ _ What _ ?!”

“Rickon released him from his vows,” she continues, smiling back at her friends. “They got married on the full moon.”

Arya wheels around to give Theon a good-natured shove. “You got married and didn’t tell me?!” She hugs Jeyne, who accepts the gesture with a laugh. They babble the whole way back to the keep, all catching up as Sansa hosts them in her chamber. She has minstrels in the adjoining room playing her favorite songs, and maidservants bring them lemon cakes and honeywine. This is what she’s always wanted, ever since she was a little girl. It’s so, so close to being perfect.

.

King’s Landing is full of guests attending the royal wedding. It’s the first of its kind, not only because it will be the first royal wedding in three hundred years that isn’t officiated by a High Septon, but also because it will be the first wedding in Westeros between two women. As her litter passes through the city, Sansa can occasionally hear the sparrows preaching against the dragon queen’s ungodly lechery, about the she-wolf from the North who enticed her with her primitive ways. It always makes Sansa laugh. For every sparrow preaching against her, there are at least ten banners sewn with an entwined direwolf and three-headed dragon. The people love the marriage, even if the sparrows do not. 

_ What does it matter? Wolves and dragons alike feed upon sparrows.  _

There is no new religion to replace the old. Sansa and Jeyne have their weirwood sprout, which will take some years to grow, but few people in the south keep to the old gods. The Light of the Seven forbids marriages such as Sansa’s and Daenerys’s, so they are not welcome here. And all the followers of R’hllor seem to have vanished. They served their purpose in the Great War, and now that the enemy has been defeated, their god has no need of them. 

“Perhaps it’s better this way,” Daenerys says. “Men do terrible things because they think their gods will it. Perhaps with no gods to will them, they will stop doing so many terrible things.”

“Men will always do terrible things, they only need a reason,” Sansa points out. 

“Then let us try not to give them any reasons.” She takes Sansa’s hand. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Sansa echoes. Tomorrow they will stand in the throne room of the new keep and take each other for wives. Tomorrow they will belong to each other for the rest of their days. Sansa will be made a queen, and Daenerys’s child will be her child, too. 

_ If only Mother were here. _

She shakes that thought out of her head and smiles at Daenerys. “I can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I. I was married twice before; first to a stranger, then to an enemy. Now I shall marry the person I love.”

Filled with quiet contentment, the two women hold each other and look out their window at the darkening sky. The first thread of purple winds across the dusky sky, promising spring and all that comes with it. 

.

Sansa awakens long before she needs to, full of nervous anticipation. She and Daenerys take a bath together, scrubbing their skin and washing each other’s hair until it shines. By the time their maids come to make them ready, they are clean and dry and eager to get a move on. 

Jeyne is pale-faced and quiet, still sick from her child, but she refuses to go rest. Not today. She and Daenerys commiserate over their conditions together, sharing advice and silly stories. That makes Sansa happy, for the two people dearest to her heart to get along so well. Arya joins them not long after, her wet hair and red cheeks implying that she’s had a morning of drilling in the yard (or perhaps Gendry’s bed). She didn’t like helping Sansa at her first wedding, and Sansa doubts she likes it now, but Arya doesn’t utter a word of complaint, and that means more to Sansa than she can possibly say. It will be time for her own wedding before long. Sansa has already made Arya promise to let her make the dress, and the cloak of protection, as she’s quite sure the last Baratheon bridal cloaks burned in the destruction of King’s Landing. It’s fitting, she supposes: new cloaks for new Baratheons. 

Sansa is still in her robe when Arya steps out for a moment. When she returns, there’s someone with her.

It’s Catelyn, her cloak and boots travel-worn. Hair pulls away from her braid, and two spots of color sit high on her cheeks. She’s ridden here, Sansa realizes, and if her appearance is anything to go by, she rode quite hard. 

“Mother?”

“Sansa,” Catelyn whispers, her arms falling open.

Before she quite knows what she’s doing, Sansa runs into her mother’s embrace, throwing her arms around the other woman. Catelyn clutches her tight, only letting go to wipe the tears that spill from Sansa’s eyes. 

“You came,” Sansa says, her voice cracking. 

“I couldn’t have missed your wedding,” Catelyn says, eyes wet with emotion. “As soon as Bran and Arya were out the gate, I realized what a mistake I’d made.” She touches her daughter’s chin. “I’m so sorry, my sweet girl. Can you ever forgive me?”

Sansa opens her mouth to say yes, and then closes it again. She takes a half-step back. “You mustn’t speak ill of me or Daenerys or our marriage ever again.”

“I won’t,” Catelyn vows. “It will...take time for me to adjust, but all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy and safe. I believe you are both here with Daenerys.”

Sansa hugs her again. “I forgive you.”

Catelyn melts into the embrace. “Thank you, Sansa.” She pulls back, smiling. “Let me change out of these clothes and I’ll help you finish getting ready.”

Sansa squeezes her hands before letting her go. Overwhelmed, she sits back at her vanity, wiping the tears from her eyes. 

“Are you alright?” Jeyne asks softly.

Sansa smiles up at her. “I’m perfect.”

.

Sansa Stark and Daenerys Targaryen pledge themselves to each other in the sight of all men, promising to love, honor, and obey, from this day until the end of their days. 

Sansa cannot help but look out at the sea of faces watching her. Her mother. Arya. Bran and Rickon. Jeyne and Theon. Her uncle Edmure and his wife Walda. Walda’s son Rickon and Sansa’s great-uncle Brynden Blackfish. Osha and all the wolves. Shireen Baratheon and her cousins, Gendry and Edric. Ros and Shae, the latter holding holding Tyrion’s hand. Bronn and Podrick Payne. Brienne. Jaime Lannister and his daughter Myrcella, and beside her, Trystane and Arianne Martell. Roslin Umber, leaning on her husband. Maege Mormont and all her daughters. Asha Greyjoy and the ironborn who would follow her anywhere. Missandei of Naath. Grey Worm and his Unsullied. The Dothraki. Ser Davos Seaworth. Robin Arryn and his own soon-to-be bride Myranda Royce. She is the only Royce who bothered to attend; Bronze Yohn and his flock of hens declined. They cannot bear to watch their last son’s bride marry another, and Sansa cannot fault them for that.

There are others she sees, others who aren’t really there. Her father. Robb. Jon. Lady, sitting dutifully beside her brothers and sister. 

The ribbon is untied, the bond completed. Sansa takes the throne beside Daenerys’s, lowering her face so that Daenerys can place a crown upon her head.

“I give you Sansa Stark, Queen of the Six Kingdoms,” Daenerys says in a ringing voice. “Long may she reign.”

_ “LONG MAY SHE REIGN!” _


	113. JEYNE XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Just...wow. Here we are. The end. Nobody look at me I'm definitely NOT crying.
> 
> I'm honestly speechless, not only that I got this far (this is, to date, the longest fic I've written on ao3, and I seriously doubt I'm going to surpass it anytime soon), but also that some of y'all read the whole thing???? Some of you really looked at my self-indulgent garbage and decided it was worth your time and energy and honestly, you are all icons and have made me the happiest binch. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for getting this far. It means more to me than I can possibly say. This ending's for you. Enjoy.

The two women kneel before the weirwood, intent on their work. Jeyne’s knees ache, but really, what doesn’t ache these days? She can bear it for a little longer. 

“Do his eyes look stupid?”

Jeyne looks up and bites back a laugh. “They’re very…”

“Stupid.”

“Not stupid, maybe just...maybe add some eyeballs?”

“What?”

“Help me up.” 

Sansa does, pulling her heavily pregnant friend to her feet. Her knees nearly buckle, but she leans against the tree while she takes her knife to the slits Sansa made for eyes. She carves half-circles just beneath the slits, digging her knife into the back and drawing out to give them a bulbous appearance. 

“See, now it looks like he’s watching.”

“It does,” Sansa allows, tilting her head. “You’re good with that knife.”

“We’ve been through a lot together.” Jeyne steps back and, deciding the heart tree is perfectly adequate, returns her knife to its garter. Even now she wears it, though that’s less because she’s afraid and more because it’s habit. 

“Mother!” shouts a high, small voice, and Sansa barely has time to react before a blur of silver hair and red satin comes barreling at her. The force of his embrace nearly knocks her over, and Sansa grunts as she tries to steady herself.

“Hello, my love. How was your history lesson?”

“Boring,” he huffs, looking up at her with his lower lip jutting out. “Why do I have to learn about all those dead kings?”

“All those dead kings are your ancestors, and you wouldn’t be here without them,” she reminds him, smoothing down his curls. 

“I suppose,” he says unhappily. “I’d much rather swordfight.”

“I know, sweetheart. Why don’t you go change, and we’ll see if Theon can’t take you and Vayon out to the yard.”

The little prince perks up at the mention of his best friend. “Can he? Please?”

“He’s meeting with the small council now,” Jeyne supplies. “But once they’re finished, I’m sure he’ll be happy to take you and Vayon.”

The little boy squirms to be released from his mother’s arms. “I’m going to find Vayon.”

“You should include Robb, too,” Sansa reminds him. “Remember what we talked about.”

The prince’s face wrinkles in distaste. “But he’s a baby, and he cries if I knock him down.”

“Just because you  _ can _ knock someone down doesn’t mean you  _ should _ ,” Sansa tells him. “You are the Crown Prince, and someday, the Six Kingdoms will be yours. If you want the people to love you as they love your mother, you must show them that you deserve their love. Knocking a small child into the dirt is not kingly of you.”

“It would mean so much to me if you would be gentle with him, my prince,” Jeyne adds. “Robb looks up to you so. Perhaps you can teach him how to be stronger.”

He considers that. “Well...alright.” He’s always had a soft spot for Jeyne, who nursed him at her own breast and treats him like one of her own. She’s a third mother to him, and her sons are the brothers he’s never known. He and Vayon are only two months apart, and though they are as different as the sun and moon, their love for each other is undeniable. He can even be sweet to Robb when he tries, and in a year or two, when Robb is big enough, he’ll be able to play with the older boys without falling behind.

He starts to dash off, looking for his friends.

“Jon!” 

He turns back, looking at his mother. She smiles and taps her cheek. Grinning bashfully, he goes back to his mother, who stoops down to kiss his cheek. He kisses hers in return, winding skinny arms around her neck. 

“I love you, darling.”

“I love you, Mother.” He lets go of her and hugs Jeyne, or tries to. “She’s kicking.”

“She’s eager to meet you.” Jeyne can’t say how she knows, but she feels certain that the babe inside her is a girl. She hopes it’s a girl; she loves her boys, but she longs for a little girl to pet and spoil. Theon won’t say anything, afraid of getting his hopes up, but she knows that he, too, wants a girl. 

_ Even if it is a boy, we can always try again until we have a girl.  _ She finds it almost funny; her mother had five girls, and now Jeyne worries she’ll only ever have sons. She’ll love them all, of course. She’d never thought to have children after Littlefinger’s brothel, never imagining she’d want to let a man touch her again. Now, she can never get enough of Theon’s touch.

While Jon scampers off to play, Jeyne and Sansa take their time leaving the godswood. The other trees are growing, slowly but surely. Someday it will be a real wood and not just a small garden. At least they have a heart tree now. Later, Jeyne will take the boys here and teach them about the old gods. They know a very little bit from their visits to Winterfell and Storm’s End, but she’s never devoted the time that she should to teaching them. She’ll fix that soon enough. And mayhap she’ll ask Theon to teach them about the Drowned God. Her husband is far from a devout man, but she knows that some part of him still believes the things he was taught as a child. 

“I’m sorry about him,” Sansa apologizes as they walk. “He cares for Robb, he truly does, he only…”

“They’re children,” Jeyne says in a reassuring tone. “It was the same with you and me and Arya.”

“I suppose.” 

She takes Sansa’s hand. “I’m truly not upset. Robb will be too distracted with the baby soon to feel excluded, anyway.”

Sansa smiles. “He’ll like being a big brother. Have you thought of any names?”

“We were thinking Alannys, for Theon’s mother. I suggested Asha, but he told me she’s far too full of herself as it is. Probably for the best; I don’t think the world can handle more than one Asha Greyjoy at a time.” 

“You seem so certain it’s a girl. What if it’s a boy?”

“Rickon or Eddard,” she says without hesitation. 

Sansa nods, visibly touched. “Those are good names.”

They come out of the garden and into the yard. Jon, Vayon, and Robb are all climbing on Grey Wind, who tolerates the indignity with grace. His yellow eyes look at the two women, the mildest bit accusing. 

“Leave Grey Wind alone,” Jeyne instructs her boys. Seeing her, Robb shrieks with delight and runs towards her. He’s swiftly intercepted by a strong pair of arms that toss him up in the air. Robb shrieks again, laughing madly as he comes down in his father’s arms. 

“Da!”

“Father!”

“Theon!”

The boys swarm around him, shouting excitedly and begging to drill in the yard. It’s a job technically meant for the master-at-arms, but Theon can’t help taking over when his sons are in the yard, and Jon infinitely prefers his friend’s father to the wizened old Dothraki who always sounds like he’s growling.

“Alright, alright, go change,” Theon allows. 

They scream in delight and run inside, Robb following on stubby toddler’s legs.

“Done for the day?” Jeyne asks, tipping up her head to receive a kiss. 

“Aye. Not much to discuss, though we did receive a white raven from the Citadel.”

“Winter’s coming,” Sansa murmurs. It will be the first winter since the Long Night—but hopefully not nearly as terrible. “Rickon and Lyanna may have snow at their wedding yet.”

They’re still young—younger than Sansa was at her first wedding. But Lyanna has had her blood, and she and Rickon both seem to think it is the right time. Jeyne wouldn’t go so far as to say the two are in love, but there’s a sort of fondness and respect there, one that will make a strong foundation for a good marriage. Lyanna will make him a fine queen, and if the gods are good, will bear him many fine children. Winter is coming, and they must all be ready. 

Sansa and Daenerys take their leave, arms twined and faces smiling. They are still so in love with each other, even years later. Jeyne’s glad. They both of them deserve happiness after all that they’ve endured. 

_ We all do, _ Jeyne thinks, looking at her husband. 

Ros walks with them for a bit, discussing some of the council affairs with Theon. They’ve both done well for themselves—Theon as Master of Ships and Ros as Mistress of Coin. 

“It’s the easiest thing to be mistress of,” she likes to joke. “I’ve never had to fuck coin.”

Now she looks over at Jeyne, smiling. “Your time is soon, isn’t it?”

“Not soon enough; I feel I get a little bigger every day. She’ll be big as an aurochs by the time she’s born.”

“She?”

“Jeyne’s convinced it’s a girl,” Theon explains. 

“Oh, I hope it’s a girl. I’m tired of buying myself clothes, I’d much rather have a little girl to dress up.”

“You could have one of your own,” Jeyne points out. 

Ros waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t think I want to. Our queen may have been able to get away with having a bastard, but I have enough of a tarnished reputation as it is, which means I’d have to get married, and I don’t want that. Besides, I don’t think I could bear the pain. No, I’d much rather spoil my friends’ children, and hand them back when they become unpleasant.” She stops suddenly, winding her arms around Jeyne in a hug. “I hope it’s a girl,” she says softly. “I hope you get everything you’ve ever wanted. You deserve it.” And without giving Jeyne a chance to respond, she pulls away and walks swiftly down the corridor. 

Jeyne continues on, waddling slowly. The longer she walks, the harder it becomes, and she soon has to lean on Theon.

“You alright?” he asks, helping her along. 

“Yes, I just need a lie-down. Sansa and I were carving the heart tree’s face and I spent too long squatting down.”

“You should be more careful.”

“I was being careful; I was hoping that if I stayed that way long enough, the babe would get uncomfortable and come out.”

He laughs at that. “She’ll come soon.” 

“Not soon enough.”

He shifts. “Well, you know, there are certain  _ things _ we can do to make her come sooner…”

“The boys are waiting for you,” she reminds him, though she isn’t entirely opposed to the idea.

“They can wait a little longer.”

She opens her mouth to tease him, but she grips his arm and stops in her tracks.

“Jeyne? What is it?”

“The baby’s coming,” she says faintly. 

“What, now?”

“Now. Help me to the room.”

He reaches down to pick her up, but Jeyne stops him.

“I love you,” she says gravely.

He blinks at her. “I love you, too.”

“I’m saying it now because I’m about to say horrible things for the next few hours,” she explains. “And I just want you to know that no matter what I say in the birthing room, I do love you.”

He smiles. “I know you do. Now let’s go meet our girl.” He hefts her up in his arms and carries her to their room. He’ll be by her side for the whole birth, just as he was with Vayon and Robb. It’s unusual for husbands to be in the birthing room, but Theon is an unusual husband. It’s one of the many things she loves about him. 

Jeyne presses her head to his. It’s been ten years since he found her in Littlefinger’s brothel. Ten years since she was a child afraid of her own shadow, a scared little girl who could never imagine a life beyond her cage. She had never thought to fall in love or let a man touch her, let alone marry him and have his children. But here she is, about to have his third child, and gods be good, not his last. 

_ Gods, give us a girl, _ she prays. A girl she can pet and spoil, a girl who never has to fear her own shadow, a girl who will be the most loved child in Westeros. 

As if hearing her prayer, the first labor pain passes over her. Jeyne blinks back tears and smiles. 


End file.
